Convergence
by Halcyon5
Summary: In the wake of Slade's assault, Oliver Queen is left to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. But as foes new and old begin to appear on the horizon, the battle for Starling City will be taken to its height. From boardrooms to back alleys, Oliver and his team must prepare to face the greatest threat they have ever known, for the Convergence has already begun. Post Season 2.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys…it's been a long time since I've updated anything. But I've been on a bit of an 'Arrow' kick lately, and after that season finale, I just HAD to write something to get it out of my system. And once I started, I just couldn't stop until I finished at least a chapter. **

**And yes, for those who can't read without knowing a pairing, this will be a slow-burning Olicity. Gah, even saying that makes me feel like a 12-year-old girl. **

**And as usual, disclaimer: I do not own Arrow.  
Enjoy!**

Chapter One

"Say what you will about the mirakuru, but those guys could have come in handy if we ever decided to move some furniture around."

Oliver Queen, ex-billionaire playboy and vigilante crime fighter, couldn't help but chuckle. "Glad to see your affinity for one-liners hasn't lost any ground, Felicity."

To his left, Felicity Smoak, executive assistant and electronic sorceress, tossed her omnipresent ponytail back, golden hair flashing. "You shoot bulls-eyes from a mile away, I make snarky comments." She gave him a sideways glance, blue eyes smirking behind the designer frames she favored. "We all have our superpowers."

"Yeah, well unless mine just happens to turn out to be interior redesign, I'd say we've got a lot of work on our hands," came the voice of the third member of their group, Special Forces veteran and bodyguard John Diggle as he stepped down the last stair to join the other two in surveying the ruins of what used to be the Foundry. In their drug-fueled rampage through Starling City, Slade Wilson's goons had practically torn Oliver's secret base apart. Shattered glass, overturned tables, and broken ceiling tiles littered the floor, while occasional fits of electricity still sparked from the clumps of severed wires that hung from computer monitors and fuse boxes. They had seen the damage before, in passing, but now that they finally had time to come back and inspect the room after their victory, its extent was finally becoming clear.

And that was illustrated most clearly as Felicity gave a little whimper at the sight of her prized workstation torn to smithereens.

"Those animals!" the blonde fumed, heels clicking angrily on the concrete as she crossed over to the set of smashed screens and keyboards that had been her weapon for their crusade just as surely as Oliver's bow had been his. "Do you know how much data I had stored here? How much all this equipment cost?"

"Well, I did pay for all this," Oliver ventured, trying to lighten the mood, "so…"

Felicity gave him a pointed glare, and he wisely closed his mouth as she continued her rant. "Terabytes of information, all my tech, gone! Look at this! They even…" she paused, swallowing as though fighting back tears, gesturing helplessly, "…they even destroyed my chair."

"Your chair?" Oliver stepped forward and saw Felicity staring mournfully at the remains of her rolling office chair.

"It had such great lumbar support," she whispered, and Oliver wasn't sure how serious she was being.

"Maybe I should've killed Slade after all," he said, and he was relieved to see her crack a smile.

"We'll salvage what we can," Oliver continued, turning towards his workbench. "Pack it up, move it out. Digg, you can clear up the furniture, I'll check gear, and Felicity, you can see if there's anything worth saving in the tech department."

"Triage, got it," Felicity nodded, already beginning to pop the casing off a nearby modem.

Diggle had already busied himself with muscling the larger chunks of debris out of the way, and Oliver focused his attention on casting around his work area to see how many arrows or other materials he could scavenge. While he constructed all his own arrows, the materials he used were still expensive, and now that he no longer had access to his company's profits or family fortune, he couldn't simply order more.

Getting the company back had to be their first priority, he reasoned as he shifted aside a chunk of ceiling tiles that had collapsed onto his workbench. While he knew that wealth wasn't what made him the Arrow, it certainly helped a great deal. It was going to be awfully difficult to protect the city if he could scarcely afford to feed himself. While he knew Felicity and Diggle would be more than willing to lend him money short-term, that wasn't a burden he was willing to place on them, nor one his pride would allow him to. Queen Consolidated still bore his family's name, and he would dishonor them all if he simply gave up and didn't attempt to regain control.

He paused momentarily after collecting a pair of arrows that had been trapped under the tile. Who was his family now? His parents were both dead, his sister missing and, judging from Roy's reaction to the note she had left, wasn't going to be coming back for a while.

Oliver sighed. Finding Thea was yet another entry on a to-do list that only seemed to have grown longer after Slade Wilson's defeat. Not to mention the fact that Roy Harper, his often-uncooperative apprentice and Thea's now-ex-boyfriend, had also vanished in the wake of her.

Regain control of Queen Consolidated. Find Thea. Find Roy. Rebuild or relocate the Foundry. Ensure a peaceful transition to Starling City's interim mayor. Keep order in the aftermath of Wilson's assault. It was a tall list of tasks indeed for a battered vigilante and his small team of companions, smaller now that Sara had left for Nanda Parbat to pay her debts to the League of Shadows. But as he looked around the Foundry, saw Diggle lifting an overturned table out of the way so that Felicity could scavenge the innards of a drawer of medical supplies, he felt confident. Scratch that, he felt _good_. For the first time in months he felt like they were ready, in spite of the Foundry's state of semi-destruction and Oliver's temporary poverty. Slade's assault had brought the team together in a way nothing else could have, the tremendous threat unifying them as a single front and erasing the cracks of tension and discord that had begun to surface throughout Oliver's often morally-gray campaign of vigilante justice. When the time had come, all of them had stepped up to the plate. Diggle had practically assaulted ARGUS headquarters to convince Amanda Waller to call off the Starling-bound drone, showing strength of character that few men possessed as he teamed up with his sworn enemy Floyd Lawton, better known as the killer-for-hire Deadshot, to keep Starling City from being turned into a crater. Not that the Special Forces veteran would ever take credit for it, but Oliver knew that he once again owed the former bodyguard his life.

And, of course, Felicity. Miss Felicity Megan Smoak, MIT class of '09, master hacker and the bravest person he knew, who had not only given a despondent Oliver the tongue-lashing he needed to keep fighting when the situation seemed hopeless, but who had volunteered herself for the most dangerous mission he had ever conceived, who had willingly allowed herself to be taken hostage by an insane killer and had personally delivered the mirakuru cure that allowed Oliver to emerge victorious.

And who had placed the mission before her personal feelings, who had born the emotional roller-coaster ride of the past few days, from Oliver's staged confession of love to their conversation on Lian Yu, with an inner strength that amazed him.

Watching Felicity's ponytail bob up and down as she searched through a set of cabinets, Oliver felt another pang of guilt at the thought of what he had done. He had manipulated her, he knew. There was no way around it. True, she had told him that he needed to "make Slade outthink him", but that was no excuse for the way he had savaged her emotions when the situation demanded it.

He could still see it, the memory as bright and vivid as day, burned into his mind by the force of two cobalt eyes that had locked with his own in a way that felt as natural as breathing; her confusion at his insistence that she stay in the deserted Queen mansion, at his sudden desperate concern for her safety, then the shock at his declaration that Slade had taken the wrong woman, the sudden mix of disbelief and hope that filled her eyes and the quiet "oh" that still echoed in his mind.

It had been that moment that triggered something in him, something he hadn't intended, a sudden override of his brain by his heart that had prompted him to go off-script. "I love you," he had breathed, and he had known in that moment that those words hadn't been a lie. They were involuntary, escaping from his mouth with a quiet sincerity that he couldn't have acted if he tried.

And then, the next moment. When he realized his mistake, when the rational part of his mind took over again and he had to surrender to the realities of the present even as his heart raged against what he was about to do.

And the light that died in her eyes when he pressed the syringe into her hand, the way her frame seemed to collapse inwards even as she stood perfectly still, the words, "do you understand?" ringing as clear to her as a death knell.

But even though it seemed like two different parts of him that had experienced that moment, the rational mind and the clamoring heart, it was on him alone that the blame lay. It was he who had crushed her hopes just moments after raising them, who had manipulated her emotions for the benefit of Slade's goons, watching on the cameras, who had _used _her as a tool to advance his plan.

It was that guilt which weighed so heavily upon him, more so than the weight of all those he had killed, directly and indirectly, over the past six years. Even though what he did had been to defeat Slade and save the city, his heart still raged, still insisted that _there had to have been another way_, a way that didn't involve savaging the emotions of a girl who cared for him so deeply that she would be well within her rights to never trust him again.

But that was the amazing part about Felicity Smoak. Even after all that, even after realizing that Oliver's confession had been staged and that she was being called upon to perform the most dangerous task of the battle, she had answered that call with no reservations. The way she had performed, had remained so calm and poised with the biting edge of Slade's katana at her neck, had been prepared to willingly sacrifice herself so that the man who had just put an arrow through her heart could put another through Slade's eye, still sent chills up Oliver's spine.

Even days later, on Lian Yu, when she'd had the opportunity and the right to tear into him for his machinations, she had done the unthinkable. She forgave him, brushed his sins aside in a rambling, charmingly-awkward conversation that was so completely _Felicity _it pained him.

He didn't deserve her. He knew that. Someone as dark and broken and damaged as him didn't deserve someone as pure and kind and _good _as Felicity Smoak.

But he could try. It was for her, he realized, more than his own principles, that he hadn't killed Slade, that he had held back from once again putting an arrow through his former friend's eye. It was Felicity who had inspired him to try another way of bringing justice, who had turned him away from a path of darkness that was slowly consuming his soul.

Out of all the women eager to line up for Starling City's most eligible bachelor, it was the bumbling, babbling IT girl with the heart of gold and the will of iron who had charmed her way into Oliver's heart.

"Oliver?"

The archer recognized Diggle's voice as soon as the man's hand touched his shoulder, but that didn't stop him from reacting instinctively, ducking out from under Diggle's arm even as his own hands latched around the soldier's forearm, ready to heave him over his shoulder.

"Whoa, man, easy!" Diggle protested, twisting out of Oliver's grasp and taking a step back with hands raised. "It's just me."

"Right. Sorry about that," Oliver apologized, hands sliding sheepishly into his pockets. "You startled me."

"Apparently," Diggle chuckled. "I guess that's a point to me, then, huh? How many people can say they've snuck up on the Arrow?"

"I was...distracted," Oliver mumbled.

"I know," Diggle said with a quiet grin. "You've been staring at her for the past five minutes."

Oliver blinked, his face flushing. "What? Oh, I, uh…" he trailed off awkwardly, incredibly thankful that Felicity hadn't turned around to meet his gaze. "I'm just worried about her," he said. "She's been through a lot."

"We all have," Diggle responded. "But you're not doing the clean-up effort any good by sitting there all doe-eyed." Before Oliver could defend himself, Diggle raised a preemptive hand. "Anyways, I figured if we're going to be down here all day, we could probably use some lunch." He passed Oliver his phone, which currently had the menu of the team's go-to pizza place pulled up.

"Tony's is still open?" Oliver wondered. Being located in the Glades, the part of the city that had been hit the hardest by Slade's shock troops and subsequent looting, he was amazed that Tony's hadn't been among the casualties.

"Can't hell nor high water stop an authentic Italian chef from practicing his art," Diggle intoned seriously, and Oliver smiled, a mental picture of Tony standing outside his business and menacing Slade's goons with a pizza slicer forming in his head.

"Heroic as he may be, I think you're forgetting one thing," Oliver said. "I'm broke. When she took over Queen Consolidated, Isabel cut off all my lines of credit, and billionaires aren't usually in the habit of carrying about spare change."

"Relax, Oliver," Diggle said. "This one's on me."

Oliver opened his mouth to protest, but the look in Diggle's eyes silenced him.

"Well, I owe you one," he said instead.

Diggle snorted. "Son, you owe me for so many times I could be a billionaire myself if I called them all in."

Oliver ignored him and turned to face the third member of their team, who was now elbow-deep in the wiring of her station's central monitor. "Felicity," he called. "Digg's ordering pizza; the usual for you?"

"One-quarter of whatever it is you get," Felicity confirmed, and Oliver smiled. Due to her Jewish beliefs, Felicity always reserved a quarter of the team's food to be kosher. In this case, that meant no meat toppings, but in typical form, Felicity put her own unique spin on it by insisting that her portion be decorated with pineapple, which often resulted in very unique creations, as Oliver and Diggle preferred to pile their own portions high with various meats.

"Alright," Oliver said, nodding to Diggle to send the order in. "Pineapple belongs nowhere near a proper pizza," he muttered to himself.

"Excuse me?" Felicity demanded, extracting herself from the tangle of wiring to skewer Oliver with a piercing glance.

Unimpressed, Oliver shrugged. "You know my stance on this. Pineapple and pizza are two things that should not go together."

"Well, Mr. Arrow," Felicity said, hands going to her hips, "you may be an expert in pointy objects, but I actually finished college, which I believe makes me the expert on pizza. And for your information, pineapple is a wonderful and delicious topping whose sweetness perfectly balances a proper savory marinara sauce."

Seeing the grins spreading across Oliver and Diggle's faces at her rant, Felicity blinked, arms dropping to her sides. "Fine. Laugh. I don't have to defend my tastes against a pair of pizza troglodytes."

"Troglodytes?" Oliver couldn't help but laugh.

"Just because you majored in dropping out doesn't mean I'm going to dumb down my vocabulary, Oliver," Felicity returned, the slight curl of her lips indicating she meant no offense.

"Actually, I did have a major," Oliver replied without thinking, without thinking. Caught up in the banter, he took her skeptically-raised eyebrow as encouragement. "I took a five-year course in being a badass."

Oliver knew it wasn't his best line, but he had hoped that it would at least get a pitying smile out of her. It was to his utmost surprise, then, that Felicity's eyes widened as if he had just confessed some terrible secret, hand going to her mouth out of shock.

And she wasn't alone. Behind him, he heart a resounding clang as Diggle dropped the I-beam he had been attempting to maneuver away from the Foundry's entrance.

"What?" Oliver said, truly confused. "It wasn't that dumb, was it?"

"No, no, it's not that," Felicity reassured him immediately. "It's just that…"

"That what?" Oliver pressed with genuine curiosity. Felicity paused, as if searching for the right words, but it was Diggle that swooped in to finish her thought.

"That's the first time you've ever joked about your time on the island, Oliver," his bodyguard supplied, crossing his arms.

Felicity nodded. "Ever," she said slowly, as if gauging his reaction.

Oliver blinked and took a step back. "I guess you're right," he said quietly, and for a moment he dared to hope.

And then the images came flooding back.

His father, holding the revolver to his own head and imparting one last command to survive before a flash of light and a crack of gunpowder erased him from the world. Yao Fei, crumpling to the ground with a neat hole from Fyers' bullet between his eyes. Slade, the deranged madness in his eyes betraying the damage the mirakuru had wrought upon his mind even as it gave his limbs the strength to lift Oliver from the ground by his throat.

And Shado. Shado, lying bleeding and lifeless on the cold ground, her eyes frozen open in shock. Oliver shut his eyes tight, trying to block out the image, but it was too late. Shado's eyes were still there, staring into his soul, knowing, accusing.

_How could you forget me? Forget us? Because of her? Am I nothing to you?_

"Oliver? Oliver, are you alright?"

Oliver snapped back to reality as Felicity leaned in to put a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine."

But of course, Felicity would not be so easily deterred. "Are you sure?" she continued. "If you want to talk about it-"

"That won't be necessary," Oliver interrupted hastily, standing up. "I just…I need some time."

Felicity opened her mouth to speak, but Oliver couldn't bring himself to face her in that moment. Instead, he made for the stairs, leaving behind two very confused friends.

Ducking through the doorframe, Oliver continued through the shambles of what used to be the Verdant nightclub, his and Tommy's ill-fated former business venture, which Thea had taken upon herself to turn around.

Tommy. Thea. Oliver shook his head, trying to rid himself of memories, but they kept flooding insistently back. Growing angry now at his inability to retain control of his emotions, Oliver flung open the doors and stepped outside.

It was raining. _Of course it was raining_, he thought bitterly. _The hero leaves to ponder his sins, and so it has to rain._ Part of him wanted to turn back inside immediately, refusing to perpetuate the cliché, but a stronger part succumbed, too weary to resist.

And so he stood. Oliver Queen stood alone in the downpour outside the abandoned steel factory-cum-nightclub in the Glades and thought.

He hadn't even realized the significance of his poor one-liner. The joke had come to him so simply, so natural in the midst of his back-and-forth with Felicity, the usual memories of pain and loss that accompanied the thought of Lian Yu nowhere to be found.

Perhaps he was finally starting to forget.

But Shado would not let him.

Oliver shoved his hands into his pockets, narrowing his eyes against the driving rain and expelling a deep plume of air.

It had been almost six years now, six years since the _Queen's Gambit_ went down in the East China Sea, a result of Malcolm Merlyn's sabotage. Six years since he had been sentenced to die on the forsaken island they called Purgatory.

But he had survived. With the help of others, he had survived, and he had come back. He could not forget; to do so would dishonor the memory of those who had saved him.

But at the same time, he thought with growing frustration, he could not hold on. He had been carrying the pain and grief of those years with him ever since, an invisible millstone hung around his neck every hour of every day. It was holding him back, preventing him from truly returning.

Felicity made it go away. Oliver never felt more at home, more at peace, than when he was with her, whether they were indulging in caloric sin at Big Belly Burger or cooperating to bring down yet another element of the criminal underworld. The island was his past, a past he had lived in for years. It was only with her that he truly felt in the present.

And that frustrated him to no end.

He was still struggling with his feelings for the charmingly-awkward IT girl, and with his infamous stubbornness, likely would be for a while. Regardless of what he may feel, regardless of how her rambling brought a smile to his face even on the worst of days or how her incessant pen-chewing habit littered the Foundry with destroyed writing utensils in a manner he found strangely-endearing, she was off-limits. She had to be. For his sake and for hers, nothing could happen. The life he led and the live she deserved were in two different worlds, and nothing he could do could bridge that gap.

He knew that. He accepted that.

But that didn't mean he had to cling to the past, to the island. If the day should ever come when he could hang up the hood and bow, he wanted to be able to step forward into the light, not remain ensconced in the darkness. Slade too had loved Shado, and that love had clouded his mind and twisted his deeds into madness. Oliver would not allow himself to become like Slade.

He closed his eyes once again, the image of Shado springing back into his mind. But this time, it was not her final moments, her face no longer stained with blood. She was serene, radiant; the way he had seen her at the height of his love.

_I have to let you go_, he thought. _I will never forget you, but I can't carry this guilt anymore. I have to let you go._

And Shado smiled. _I know_, she said. _It's time. To move on. To live and love again._ The wind gusted, and she began to fade away. _Goodbye, Oliver,_ she said, her voice growing faint. _ And farewell._

"Farewell," Oliver whispered into the rain.

When he opened his eyes again, he took a deep breath, filling his lungs. He felt lighter, a burden he had been carrying for so long that it had become a part of him now lifted off his shoulders.

Whatever the damage Slade had wrought, to Starling City and to Oliver's family, he had ironically brought about salvation. Ever since his return to Starling City, Oliver had been living in the past. That past had come back for vengeance, and having defeated it, he now had no choice but to embrace the present.

The sound of an engine pulled Oliver out of his reflection as a battered white sedan swung into the parking lot, "Tony's Pizzas" emblazoned in garish lettering on its side. The door swung open, and a scrawny teen with a mop of blonde hair jumped out, balancing a white box expertly on his hand.

"Order for a Mr. Diggle?" the boy called out, and Oliver nodded, stepping forward to take the box. The kid was just about to hand it to him when he suddenly frowned.

"Wait…you're Oliver Queen!"

Oliver sighed. "You caught me. I'm a friend of Mr. Diggle, he's inside."

Still starstruck, the kid was babbling. "I can't believe you're here in the Glades! My friends'll never believe me. The media said you're broke now, but they can't be right? Right? You've got a trust fund or some secret-"

"Hey, kid," Oliver grunted, taking a step closer and looking the kid directly in the eyes. "You want to know a secret about Oliver Queen?"

Breathless, the teen nodded.

Oliver grabbed the box. "He really wants his damn pizza."

Turning away, Oliver strode back to the club entrance. "Goodnight Mr. Queen!" the teen yelled out, and Oliver shook his head in exasperation. Even after being humiliated, bankrupted, and evicted in plain view of the media, he was still treated as a celebrity. Some things, it seemed would never change.

Pizza box in hand, Oliver made his way back through the club and down the stairs into the Foundry, where a concerned Felicity and an unimpressed Diggle were waiting.

"Told you he'd be back," Diggle grunted, and Felicity folded her hands in front of her. "I was just about to go look for you," she said. "I hope I didn't upset you, or anything, because that's never what I intended. I just-"

"Nothing of the sort, Felicity," Oliver assured her, smiling at the way she sighed in relief. "I just…needed some time to think. That's all."

"Do you usually do your thinking in the rain?" Felicity replied. "Because that's awfully stereotypical of the brooding hero."

Oliver laughed again. "No brooding. Just…reprioritizing."

A silence fell across the conversation for a moment, but Felicity, never one to be intimidated by silence, began to open her mouth to speak. However, Oliver wasn't quite ready to discuss the nature of his reprioritizing with her, and so he held up the box. "Pie?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Diggle said, snatching the box and carrying it to the closest horizontal surface he could find, the hollowed-out remains of a metal filing cabinet. He popped open the lid, and immediately the Foundry was flooded with the mouthwatering scent of fresh pizza. Oliver's stomach growled, and as he thought back, he realized that he hadn't had a proper meal since before Slade's attack.

"Dibs," he called, brushing past his bodyguard to snag a slice from the non-pineapple portion. Before Diggle could even protest, Oliver had sunk his teeth into the delicious creation, burning his tongue on the still-piping-hot cheese and toppings but regretting nothing as he chewed.

"Well," Diggle said, "I guess I should just give you the box. Are you going to put an arrow in me if I don't?"

"Considering it," Oliver replied around the mouthful. "Forget the city, I was fighting to save Tony's Pizzas."

That brought a laugh from all, and Oliver was thankful that for now, at least, the team appeared to be back to normal.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, alternating between grabbing a slice and continuing to scavenge the Foundry. But as the remaining pieces dwindled, they gravitated back towards the box, and each other.

"So, boss," Diggle said as he leaned back against a counter. "What's the plan?"

Oliver swallowed, brushing his hands together to rid them of crumbs. "First order of business is to get the company back. I can't very well save the city if I'm begging on the street corner, now can I?"

"And how, exactly, are we planning to do that?" Felicity asked. "Just because your name's on the door, that doesn't mean you can just waltz back in and expect them to hand you the reins again."

"Well, seeing as Ms. Rochev turned out to be an accomplice to Slade and insane, I think the board would be willing to rethink their faith in her," Oliver stated.

"No, Oliver, it's not just that," Felicity insisted, taking a step closer. "The board isn't going to reinstate you as CEO just because you're not Isabel; let's face it, even before she usurped and bankrupted you, you weren't exactly a favorite with the board members. You know, what with all the missed meetings and missed…days." Seeing Oliver raise an eyebrow, Felicity hurried to continue. "What I'm saying is that there's probably dozens of potential CEO candidates out there, just dying to take control of a company as large as Queen Consolidated. You're going to be compared to graduates from Harvard and Wharton and Oxford with glittering Wall Street resumés and your five-year degree in being a badass probably isn't going to weigh much in that discussion."

Oliver blinked. He hadn't thought of that, but once again Felicity was doing what she did best and poking holes in his grand ideas.

"I'm just saying that if you're going to really make a case to the board, you'll need more than charm and a nice suit. You'll need ideas. You'll need solutions. And above all, you'll need to convince them that you're not going to be a delinquent trust-fund brat anymore." Her speech concluded, Felicity crossed her arms and leaned back.

"Delinquent trust-fund brat?" Oliver repeated, his tone both amused and insulted.

Felicity shrugged, tossing her ponytail back. "You pay me to speak the truth. Well, actually, you don't pay me. You should—I mean, let's face it, I pretty much do all the work around here—but even though you don't, I still speak the truth. Because that's just what I am." She paused, the river of words once again having outrun her brain. "Truth-y," she finished with a wince.

Diggle chuckled. "Truth-y indeed." Cracking his knuckles, he turned towards Oliver. "Rambling or not, the lady has a point," he said. "I think we should prepare for the possibility that it's going to be a long battle to get Queen Consolidated back. And that you'll probably have to wear a lot more suits than hoods in the near future."

Oliver bit his lip, not relishing in the slightest that future. "Noted," he finally said. "In the meantime, though, we have other tasks to attend to as well."

Diggle nodded knowingly. "Thea and Roy."

"We need to find them," Oliver stated unequivocally. "For their sakes and ours. Felicity, I want you scanning everything you can. Passport activity, traffic cameras, rental cars; anything that might give us a lead on where either of them have gone. Digg, if you can get in contact with Lyla, maybe put ARGUS on it-"

"Easy there buddy," Diggle protested, holding up his hands. "I'm just about out of favors to ask from ARGUS. Remember that whole 'assaulting their headquarters and threatening their director with help from an international assassin' thing? I'm not exactly the most popular guy in their minds right now."

Oliver gave him a look, and Diggle sighed. "I'll see what I can do," he grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Thank you," Oliver said, then took a deep breath. "There's one more thing." He glanced back at Diggle. "Seeing as the mansion no longer has the name 'Queen' on the mailbox, I am going to need a place to crash. You know, just until we can get the company and all my assets back."

Felicity burst out laughing. "Oliver Queen bumming a couch? I never thought I'd see the day."

"You're not the only one," Oliver grumbled, before turning back to Diggle. "What do you say?"

Diggle worked his jaw from side to side. "You know, I wish I could say yes," he said, "I really do. But now that Lyla and I are…well, it's just that we…"

Oliver smiled. "I understand. No hard feelings."

"Thanks, man," Diggle said. "I appreciate it."

And so Oliver turned slowly to face Felicity, one eyebrow arched up.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," she said.

Oliver shrugged. "Just for a few weeks?"

Silence.

"Please?" he added.

Felicity rubbed the bridge of her nose with her index finger, the same habit she had when she ran into a particularly vexing firewall. Finally, she gave a long-suffering sigh. "You'll do all your own dishes."

"Agreed."

"And you'll leave all your Arrow stuff here."

"Agreed."

"And you won't change the channel during the Doctor Who marathon this weekend."

Oliver gave a bewildered smile. "Agreed. Not quite understood, but agreed."

Felicity groaned and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. "I am so going to regret this decision."

"Agreed."

000

Thea was tired.

Since getting into the car with Malcolm Merlyn in the wake of the chaos that had descended on Starling City, she had lost track of the amount of time they had been traveling. First it was flying, a private jet taking them across the ocean. From there they caught another car, which took them to another airfield, where they boarded yet another flight. The cycle continued, the locations slowly getting more and more remote, the planes getting smaller and older, the cars changing from the limousine she first entered to the scuffed and dented Land Rover that now bounced along the rutted dirt and gravel path that passed for a road in the forsaken, frozen wastes of Tibet.

Malcolm had told her everything. How her mother had been lying to her for her entire life. How her brother had been lying to her since his miraculous return from the dead. She had to admit, now that she knew, it all seemed to make sense, Oliver's weird habits and infuriating absences so clearly explained she didn't know how she had missed it.

"That's your weakness, Thea," Malcolm had said. "You see the best in people. And those people use that to take advantage of you."

Thea knew it was true. Roy. Oliver. Her mother. All of them, she had tried to fight for, tried to believe in, only to have them stab her in the back.

Malcolm had promised to make her strong, to make her powerful. And he had promised her revenge.

Thea wanted all of those things.

The bouncing and rattling of the Land Rover diminished as the vehicle began to slow, finally rolling to a stop.

Thea glanced out the windows, confused. They were in the middle of a vast mountain valley. Far to the east, what looked to be a glacier carved its way through the mountains, and beyond it, a massive peak thrust skywards up through the clouds.

"Where are we?" Thea asked, turning to face Malcolm. "Why are we stopping?"

"Get out," he said.

"What?"

"I said, _get out_," Malcolm repeated bitingly, and Thea recoiled, obediently throwing open the door and stepping out.

She immediately regretted the decision as a blast of freezing glacial wind buffeted her, knifing through her jacket and cutting to the bone. Teeth chattering, she pulled the flimsy jacket tighter around her body in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked again, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

"Do you want to be strong, Thea?" he responded. "Do you want revenge? Justice?"

"You know I do," Thea replied immediately. "But what does that have to do with-?"

Malcolm cut her off with an upraised hand before transfixing her with his gaze. "If you truly desire vengeance, you must do this. There is a rare blue flower that grows on the eastern slopes. Pick one of these flowers. If you can carry it to the top of the mountain, you may find what you are looking for."

"What?" Thea sputtered, convinced that the man had gone insane.

Malcolm tossed her a bundle, and looking down, she saw that it was a heavy winter cloak, with a pair of boots.

"Pick the flower, carry it to the top," Malcolm repeated. He smiled. "I'll be waiting, daughter."

With that, the door slammed shut and the Land Rover sped away. Thea winced as she was pelted with a hail of gravel and dirt, but soon the vehicle faded into the distance and she was left alone, a single, solitary figure standing in the shadow of the mountain.

**A/N: I apologize for the blatant Batman reference.**

**JK I apologize for nothing.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for all the support! It's really encouraging and helped me get this chapter out much sooner than I expected. Anyways, a warning: this chapter contains lots of business talk. I'm not trying to turn this into a finance class, just present a realistic picture of what it would be like for Oliver to try and take back control of QC. It gets better, I swear.**

**Anyways, that concludes today's rant. Enjoy!**

Chapter Two

Oliver Queen took one last look in the mirror and straightened his tie. The deep burgundy color was one he normally eschewed, but Felicity had assured him that it would be a mature and sensible choice. When paired with one of the suits he had rescued from Queen Manor prior to his eviction, a refined charcoal color, and an unassuming white shirt, it practically radiated a conservative, business-formal aura.

It was also, Oliver decided as he turned away, decidedly boring. Unfortunately, he was going to have to bite the bullet on this one. As Felicity had taken it upon herself to remind him multiple times, he was going to have to show the board that he was no longer a flamboyant playboy, and that was going to affect his appearance as well as his actions.

"How do I look?" he asked.

Sitting a few feet away, Felicity tapped her chin twice. "Like a CEO," she said finally. "Now," she continued, standing up and handing him the briefcase by her side, "please leave my apartment so I can breathe."

"Whoa," Oliver protested as she began to push him towards the door. "It's only been two weeks. I even did the dishes this morning!"

"And can you believe it's only been two weeks?" Felicity responded wearily. As they got to the door, she turned him around to face her. "Now remember," she said, "you're prepared for this. We've done our research. Just go up there and be your charming, charismatic self. But make sure you mention some intelligent stuff, too." She paused briefly, reaching down to adjust his cuffs. "You'll do fine."

Oliver couldn't help but smile at her actions. "Thanks, mom," he said, and held up his briefcase. "Did you pack me a sandwich for lunch, too? You know PB&J is my favorite-"

"Oh shut up and just leave already," Felicity huffed, hitting him playfully in the chest.

"Alright," Oliver said, stepping out the door. "Do you need me to take out the trash, too, or should I-?"

Felicity slammed the door in his face.

Oliver grinned, but as he was about to turn around, it cracked open once again. "Oh, and Oliver?" Felicity said. "Don't screw this up. I really want my job back, too." Before he could respond, the door had slammed shut again.

Smiling and shaking his head, Oliver set off down the sidewalk to where Diggle was waiting. But instead of the usual Rolls-Royce or Bentley, the bodyguard instead was leaning against a humble Toyota.

"Even you couldn't be bothered to buy American, Digg?" Oliver asked as he made his way around to the passenger's seat.

"Not on an army salary," Diggle answered as he entered. "And when you were still a billionaire, I never had to worry about my own ride."

"Fair enough," Oliver chuckled. "Though hopefully," he said, popping open the clasps on his briefcase, "that's a situation we should be remedying soon enough."

Recognizing that Oliver was reviewing his materials, Diggle simply nodded and pulled out into road, the route to Queen Consolidated long ago etched into his memory.

Meanwhile, Oliver pulled out the first folder in his briefcase, a series of balance sheets from Queen Consolidated's investment banking division. This morning had fortuitously been the date of the release of Queen Capital's quarterly earnings report, which Felicity had wisely printed off the moment it went public, and Oliver knew it would be wise to familiarize himself with the report's contents, as Queen Capital was currently the largest earner for the company's name.

To the untrained eye, the report was a maze of statistics, data, and investment jargon. To Oliver's semi-trained eye, it was still a maze, but he could at least discern the pathways. After all, contrary to what most of the board might have thought, he hadn't been completely absent during his previous tenure as CEO, and he was familiar with most of the company's general policies.

And Felicity's statement about research hadn't been a joke, either. For the last two weeks, ever since the date for CEO interviews had been announced, Oliver had thrown himself into learning everything he could about the current state of Queen Consolidated. Felicity had called in a couple favors with former coworkers to get access to internal memos and other up-to-date information, which allowed Oliver a clearer view of how and why the board was taking certain actions. She had even arranged a brief meeting with a former member of the  
Applied Sciences division, who had provided Oliver with a very detailed description of how the board had essentially gutted their personnel and funding following the bombing of their headquarters. That had certainly instilled a sense of duty in him, as it had been his bombs that destroyed their livelihoods. Granted, it had been to help stop Slade from using Queen Consolidated's technology to make more mirakuru, but that would be of little comfort to all those who had lost their jobs.

Confident that he had a relatively solid understanding of Queen Capital's continued efforts to sell acquired US Treasury bonds in the wake of the Federal Reserve's decision to taper its quantitative easing program, Oliver set the earnings report to the side and moved on to review his remaining materials. From updates on Queen Industries' decision to cancel the construction of a planned coal-fired power plant on the outskirts of Starling City due to new air-quality regulations to a summary by Acquisitions on local enterprises that were ripe for purchase, the business of one of the largest conglomerate firms was a vast subject indeed, but Oliver knew he couldn't afford to be caught unaware on any of it.

Oliver was still engrossed in a reviewing a report on the status of the company's pension fund when Diggle tapped him on the shoulder. "We're here."

Oliver blinked, looking out to see the glittering steel and glass tower that was Queen Consolidated's Starling City headquarters. "So we are," he said, and quickly returned all extracted files to his briefcase.

"Good luck in there, man," Diggle said as Oliver opened his door. "I look forward to calling you 'boss' again in short order."

Oliver smiled. "Let's hope the board is of the same sentiment." He started to close the door. "You'll look for Roy now?"

"And call you if I find him," Diggle confirmed. "After your interview of course."

"Of course," Oliver said, shutting the door.

As Diggle drove off, Oliver glance down at his watch. It was just shy of 10 AM, with interviews slated to begin at 10:30. He snorted, almost having forgotten what it was like to be early.

As he made his way up the front steps to the lobby entrance, Oliver was more than aware of the stares he was receiving. Resolving to ignore them, he took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and stepped through the revolving doors into the lobby.

Almost immediately the steady buzz of conversation vanished as every non-statue head in the ornate lobby turned his way. Hefting his briefcase, Oliver strode briskly towards the front desk.

"Hi," he said, leaning forward onto the desk and flashing his most disarming smile at the pretty receptionist. "I'm here for the CEO interviews."

"Oh! Of-of course, Mr. Queen," she stammered, reaching to her right to punch something into her computer keyboard. "Just head right on through to security and they'll take care of the rest."

"Thank you," Oliver said, taking his case and heading towards the security checkpoint. He had been hoping to be able to bypass security with that act, but clearly she had been instructed not to do the ex-CEO any favors.

"Good morning, Mr. Queen," one of the security guards spoke up as he approached. "Glad to see you back."

"Thanks, Luis," Oliver said, setting his briefcase and phone into a tray to head through the x-ray machine. "How are the kids doing?"

"Oh, great, just great," Luis replied enthusiastically as he waved Oliver through the metal detector. "Roderigo's birthday was actually just yesterday."

"Really?" Oliver said as he stepped through and went to collect his items. "Well, tell him I hope he had a happy birthday."

"Thank you, Mr. Queen, he'll love that," Luis said with a grin. "Now, if you'll just step over here, we'll get your picture taken for your visitor's badge."

Oliver blinked. "Is that really necessary?" he asked. "I mean, it's not like everyone in the lobby didn't recognize me when I walked in."

Luis shrugged. "Sorry, Mr. Queen. I've got my orders. No guest goes in or out of the offices without identification. In wake of recent incidents, we've had to take precautions. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Oliver said slowly, stepping over to the camera and putting on a thin smile. A quick flash followed as Luis took the picture, followed by a whirring as the printing machine copied it before spitting out a laminated ID badge with a large red "V" stamped in the upper-right corner.

"There you go, sir," Luis said, stepping around the machine and handing him the badge. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Oliver said distractedly, grabbing his briefcase and walking quickly to the elevator bank. Fortunately, one was open, so he wasted no time in jumping in and punching in the code for the thirtieth floor.

As the doors slid shut and the elevator began to ascend, Oliver closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three, still attempting to come to terms with the indignity of having to wear a visitor's badge in a building with his name on the side. His hands momentarily balled up into fists, and he had to relieve some of the tension by cracking his knuckles in a series of rippling pops.

_Calm down, Oliver,_ he thought. _Getting angry won't do you any good._

He knew that to be true, but it didn't make the insult sting any less. First security, then a visitor's badge; it was clear that someone—or several someones—on the board were not thrilled with his attempt at returning.

The elevator dinged as it came to a stop, and Oliver set his jaw. This wasn't just a job interview anymore. It was a mission.

And Oliver Queen did not fail his missions.

The doors split open, and Oliver stepped out onto the tile flooring. A nearby sign reading "CEO Interviews" featured an arrow pointing towards the east wing. Oliver snorted; the board was obviously holding in the interviews in the observation room that overlooked the entire financial district of Starling City, a fairly blatant attempt to intimidate the incoming candidates.

They would have to do better than that to intimidate him. Heading down the hallway with a brisk and confident stride, flashing his million-dollar smile and dropping a polite greeting at every employee he passed, he heard the whispers start spreading in his wake.

"He's back?"

"You don't think they're going to make him CEO again, do you?"

"He certainly looks serious."

_If only they knew, _Oliver thought as he rounded the last corner and pushed open the doors to the waiting room.

No surprise, every head in the room turned to see him enter.

What was a surprise was the sheer amount of heads.

At least twenty men and women in impeccable business attire were seated throughout the room, reviewing materials or talking quietly. Felicity had been right yet again, Oliver realized as he gave the assembled applicants a courteous nod before making his way to an empty seat. The competition was certainly going to be stiff.

Fortunately, however, these were mostly mature, older men and women, and so the presence of Starling City's resident celebrity didn't distract them for very long. After a few polite nods, the majority of them returned to attending their own business.

All but one.

"Ah, Oliver. It's been too long." The voice was smooth, oiled, positively serpentine in its timbre, and Oliver made a mental note to keep his hands relaxed at his sides before turning around to face its owner.

"I may call you Oliver, right?" the man said with a flash of brilliantly-white teeth. His voice reflected his appearance; tall and lean, he was dressed in an immaculate black pin-striped three-piece suit with a blindingly-red tie knotted in a sizable Windsor knot, and a complementing pocket square completed the riverboat-gambler look. Jet-black hair was slicked back like a mafia henchman, and a sharp, almost angular nose affixed itself between a thin, pale mouth and a pair of darting, beady eyes. "Or do you go by Mr. Queen these days?" he finished, twitching one immaculately-groomed eyebrow upwards.

"Mr. Queen will be fine, thank you, Mr. Latimer," Oliver said, pasting what he hoped was a pleasant expression on his face and speaking in a carefully-controlled tone.

"Well, well, who would've thought?" asked Stephen Latimer, sticking out his hand. "Oliver Queen, the infamous playboy, now a respectable businessman?"

"Yeah, it's a real mystery," Oliver said, taking the proffered hand with a sudden aggression.

Stephen winced a little, but quickly paved it over with a return to the look of perpetual arrogance he bore like a crown. "Strong grip you've got there," he observed. "Since the last time we met, that is."

Resigned to the conversation, Oliver put on his best poker face. "And when was that?"

Stephen raised his eyebrow again. "You honestly don't remember? It was right before you and your father left on that unfortunate cruise. My father and I came to these offices, remember?"

Oliver frowned. "Ah, that's right. A mutual business venture."

"Indeed. Unfortunately, due to your father's…untimely passing...the deal was never finalized. It was one of my father's greatest regrets."

"I'm sure," Oliver said, his tone warning of dangerous waters ahead, but Stephen pressed ahead.

"Of course I'm sure you have your fair share of regrets as well, don't you, Mr. Queen?" Stephen asked, his voice positively sibilant. "I mean, since you vanished, I finished my undergraduate work at Yale and graduated with my MBA from the London School. I've been working at Stellmoor International in Acquistions, but this opportunity was just too good to pass up."

"And your point is?" Oliver asked, completely unsurprised that Stephen had been coworkers with Isabel Rochev at Stellmoor. _Must be something in the water there, _he thought.

Stephen blinked. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it? All that time you spent on that island, all the time lost. You're years behind the curve now. I mean, did you ever even get to finish a degree program?"

"No," Oliver admitted, his fingers drumming on the leather of his briefcase in a way that would have Felicity or Diggle scrambling out of his way. "But I did take ownership of this company and preside over its second-largest annual revenue increase in history."

"And its subsequent meltdown," Stephen reminded him pointedly, pushing his suit jacket back and placing his hands on his hips. "Don't take offense, I'm not trying to make it personal-"

"Of course not," Oliver muttered.

Stephen continued, unfazed. "-it's just that this company, this name, well, it's in need of some serious…rebranding. That's what my dear friend Ms. Rochev was trying to help you with in her work here as managing partner."

"Oh, she was most helpful," Oliver said with a biting sarcasm that Stephen either missed or chose to ignore.

"She was an incredible woman," he mused. "Such a pity about her death."

Oliver nodded. Evidently the full story behind Isabel's demise had yet to filter back to Stellmoor. "Truly, a pity," he intoned gravely.

Stephen frowned, and opened his mouth to speak again. But just as Oliver was considering putting a fist through his smug face, the door miraculously swung open.

"Mr. Stephen Latimer?" the secretary called, looking up from her list.

Stephen perked up immediately, clearing his throat. "I'll be right in, dear," he called before turning back to Oliver. "I do hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Queen," he said.

"Of course," Oliver nodded. "Good luck."

"To you as well," Stephen said. "I look forward to working together in the near future. After I take control of the company, it would be very helpful to have the Queen scion at my side."

Oliver bit the inside of his cheek. "I live to serve," he said quietly.

Stephen laughed, a pitchy sound that grated on the ears. "Oliver Queen, ever humble," he said, turning to pick up his briefcase. "I always liked that about you," he said over his shoulder as he passed through the door with a wink at the secretary.

Oliver took a deep breath and slowly removed his fingers from the briefcase, noting the imprints in the leather. "I wish I could say the same," he bit out after the door closed.

He glanced around the room, but all the other candidates were busy minding their own business. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was just moving to ten thirty-one.

Of course Stephen would be the first one called. Oliver snorted and settled into his chair. Once again, he had a new motivation to succeed. He would rather drive an arrow through his gut than see his father's company in the hands of Stephen Latimer.

Oliver checked his phone, but there were no new messages from Diggle or Felicity, so he resigned himself to waiting. Adjusting to a more comfortable position, he again began to review his materials. If there was one thing his vigilante work had taught him, it was that there was no substitute for preparation.

Unfortunately, his preparation was to be interrupted. Scarcely ten minutes after Stephen had been ushered into the observation room, the doors swung open again and he strutted out, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

"Oliver Queen?" the secretary called out.

Oliver jumped to his feet, hurriedly sealing his briefcase as his mind went to work. The board was conducting lightning interviews, giving each candidate very little time to elaborate on their credentials and vision in order to see who could adapt the best. Of course they were, he thought, cursing himself for not realizing it. How else could they expect to get through nearly twenty candidates in one day?

With the stakes suitably raised, Oliver buttoned his jacket and stepped up, not planning on wasting any of the board's time.

"Nailed it," Stephen whispered as he passed, and once again Oliver had to restrain himself from knocking the man's head off his shoulders.

Shaking off the encounter, Oliver stepped up to the door, giving a pleasant smile to the secretary.

"Right this way, Mr. Queen," she said, guiding him around a corner and holding open a glass door with the Queen Consolidated logo emblazoned on it. With a quick thanks, Oliver straightened and stepped into the observation room.

The view truly was magnificent, the entire eastern wall composed of nothing but plate-glass windows that afforded a breathtaking panorama of the glittering Starling City skyline. But the true focus of the room was not the view.

Rather than the typical long table that occupied most conference rooms, the observation room had been re-tooled specifically for the CEO interviews. Now, the board of directors sat behind a raised semicircular desk, peering down on the lone chair and desk that occupied the center of the space.

It was clearly a setup designed to intimidate. But Oliver Queen was not an easy man to intimidate.

"Mr. Queen." The voice was distinctly French, belonging to Mr. Thierry Dubois, former president of Accounts and now the interim CEO. "Please, take a seat."

"Thank you, Mr. Dubois," Oliver said, sitting down at the desk and placing his briefcase to his right. He breathed a mental sigh of relief knowing that Dubois was presiding over the interviews. Oliver didn't know the man well, but he knew him enough to feel confident that he would run a tough, but fair interview. Unlike some members of the board, Dubois held no grudge against Oliver. His allegiance was to the company's best interests.

That didn't mean, however, that he was going to cut Oliver any slack, as his first question proved.

"Mr. Queen, considering your prior track record at this company, including multiple occasions of missed meetings with this very board and absences at key stockholder events, why should we even consider you as a viable candidate?"

Oliver blinked, momentarily stunned. "Well," he began. "I…" he trailed off. Licking his lips, he saw the board members leaning forward, awaiting his response, and he felt distinctly like an animal caught in a trap.

_Pull yourself together, Oliver_, he raged. _This doesn't look good._

Felicity was suddenly in his mind, her words echoing: _"Don't screw this up. I want my job back, too."_

Oliver cleared his throat. "During my previous term as CEO, I admit I was very distracted. Particularly with my mother's trial. I recognize that there is no excuse for my actions, but I can assure the board that they will not be repeated."

"And how can you be so sure?" the voice was sharp, accusatory, and Oliver didn't even have to look to recognize its owner. Alan Marmont, current president of Accounts, was a combative, bitter man, with a singular devotion to the company's bottom line. When that bottom had dropped out from under QC's stock following the news of Moira's death, the Applied Sciences bombing, and the general chaos of Slade's assault on the city, Marmont, as well as several other department heads, had blamed Oliver for his absence, and saw him as a threat to the company's very survival.

Oliver knew he couldn't win Marmont and his friends over. But he could at least dull his accusations and persuade the rest of the board.

"When my mother was killed," Oliver began, "She left me behind." He paused for moment, knowing he had little time to spare but hoping to give the board something to think on. After a few seconds, he continued. "She left me behind believing that I would step up and lead. There is no question anymore. I am the heir to the Queen name, if not currently its company or fortune. But now, I cannot afford to make mistakes, because I will not stand to see this company pass out of my family. To do so would dishonor both my parents' memories."

Marmomt snorted. "A heartwarming story, to be sure, Mr. Queen," he said, "but it doesn't give us anything to go on but your word. A death in the family does not suddenly give you the business acumen required to run a company such as-"

"That's enough, Mr. Marmont," Dubois interrupted. "You will not badger the candidate."

Marmont subsided with a grumble, and Dubois continued. "If you wish to test the candidate's business acumen, then that it what we will test." Dubois steepled his hands. "Mr. Queen, the most recent earnings report for Queen Capital was released this morning. I'm sure a man of your stature will have read it, so tell us; how, if at all, do you propose we alter our investment strategies?"

Oliver made a mental note to buy Felicity a drink when he got back. If it hadn't been for her, he'd be sputtering like a fish out of water.

Thinking back to the report as well as all the research he had conducted over the past weeks, Oliver found his answer.

"The continued sale of Treasury bonds is a sound strategy," he began, and several of the board members leaned back, nodding in approval. "But," he continued, "it is what the market expects us to do."

That piqued the board's interest, especially Isaac Lancaster, president of Queen Capital. "How do you mean?" he asked.

Oliver folded his hands. "Well, it's quite simple," he said. "The Fed announces a taper, so the logical move is to sell purchased bonds as quickly as possible while the Fed is still willing to buy them back. However, think of the message that sends: Queen Consolidated, going along with the market. Queen Consolidated, afraid to challenge the status quo." He took a breath. "If, however, we were to reverse course, to buy bonds back from the Fed, we could show that we are confident in economic conditions and company leadership going forward. So confident that we are capable of investing in the federal government as well as minding our own bottom line." Here he shot a meaningful glance to Marmont, who growled again. "It would not have to be a large amount-a few millions should suffice-but it should still send a message of strength."

"Or foolishness," Lancaster countered. "The market favors selling for a reason; the most optimistic over-under on those bonds would still have them sitting in the red in five years' time. We would have to make up the revenue somehow."

Oliver smiled. "I'm so glad you mentioned that," he said. "Because I happen to have just the ticket." Reaching inside his briefcase, he removed a chart and held it up for view.

"Gentlemen, I'm sure you know what this is," he said, but before they could respond, he answered the question himself. "This is the after-tax profits of a one VexCorp Pharmaceuticals, one of the fastest-growing firms in the country and bound for Fortune 500 status. Now, I may be a college dropout, but even I know that this much black on a balance sheet is a good thing." That brought a few chuckles from some of the board, so Oliver pressed his advantage, laying down the paper. "Gentlemen, we all know that pharmaceuticals are one of the most promising new fields for investment. And yet Queen Capital's loans in that sector are next to nonexistent. Why is that?"

"Because of volatility," Lancaster answered immediately. "Pharmaceutical companies are excessively dependent on the actions of federal agencies to allow marketing and development of their products…" he trailed off as he began to see where Oliver was going.

"Exactly," Oliver said, pointing at Lancaster. "We haven't invested in VexCorp because thusfar, we've viewed their attachment with the federal government as a liability. But what if it's actually an opportunity?"

"You want to use an investment in treasury bonds to close VexCorp as a client," Lancaster realized.

Oliver nodded. "All the other firms in the market are trying to drop Uncle Sam's bonds like they're radioactive; not the business policy a federally-invested company like VexCorp wants to see. We bite the bullet on a couple million in bonds, they see us as willing to invest in their future, and the next thing you know, Queen Capital just landed one of the biggest catches in the pharma industry." He smiled. "I'm willing to bet the long-term revenue gains from bringing VexCorp—and others—into the fold will more than outweigh the temporary loss on bonds. Not to mention the prestige it would bring the company."

The board was silent for a moment, and then Mormont spoke up again. "So you read a few Wikipedia articles on venture capitalism during your hiatus and now you think you're an expert," he sniffed condescendingly. "The risks involved in such a maneuver go far beyond the loss of a few million in bonds. If we go against the market on this, we only expose ourselves to more losses in stock price-"

"While I respect your opinion, Mr. Marmont," Dubois interrupted again, "perhaps we should leave financial analysis to the financial expert?" he indicated Lancaster with a nod of his head. Mormont tried to protest, but Dubois silenced him with a glance, and he fell back into stony silence.

Lancaster took a deep breath. "I'd have to work out the specifics with Mr. Queen later, but on the surface, it sounds like a workable plan. In this investment climate, people may just flock to a company willing to go against the grain."

Oliver smiled and nodded his thanks, knowing he'd just won a vote.

Dubois nodded. "Very well," he said, ignoring the seething Mormont a few seats down. He glanced at his watch. "Ah, it appears we have little time left. The floor is now open to questions at large."

Almost immediately, every single board member raised their hands.

For the next few minutes, Oliver was absolutely peppered with questions on every possible aspect of every possible department of Queen Consolidated. Some he had answers for, and some he didn't, but he didn't show it, spun those he didn't know and nailed those he did. The deluge of inquiries came so fast and furious that he barely had time to even answer one before the next was beginning, but he refused to crack under the pressure.

Finally, Dubois sat back. "That concludes the interview," he announced standing up. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Queen."

"Likewise," Oliver said, standing up and making his way around the semi-circle to shake hands. Marmont, as expected, was stiff and forced, but most of the board seemed to be much more conciliatory than before, reappraising the young former CEO.

After completing the circuit, Oliver collected his briefcase and left, knowing it wouldn't be long before the next candidate was sent in. Still, walking with a little extra confidence in his stride, he strolled back into the waiting room and was unsurprised to find Stephen still there, leaning casually against a wall and chatting up one of the other candidates who looked more than uncomfortable with the conversation.

Oliver altered his course slightly, and Stephen looked up to see him approaching. But before that smug smile could even begin to spread across the man's weasel-like face, Oliver spoke.

"Nailed it," he whispered conspiratorially with a nudge to the man's elbow, then headed for the door before Stephen could even begin to formulate a response.

As he exited, he pulled out his phone again. Still nothing from Diggle. Oliver sighed and stepped into the elevator. Starling City was a big place, so he hadn't exactly been expecting for Diggle to be able to find their wayward accomplice in only a few hours, but every minute Roy was gone was another minute that his identity could be compromised.

_I am going to have to stick a tracking chip in that kid_, Oliver thought as he dialed Felicity's number.

The phone had barely begun to ring when she answered. "Oliver!" she said. "How'd it go? Please tell me you didn't screw it up. Because as magical as these last two weeks have been, I really can't deal with you on my couch anymore."

Oliver shook his head with an exasperated smile. "I did not screw it up," he said. "In fact, I believe I may have won some hearts and minds."

There was a pause. Then, "You didn't threaten to put arrows in them, did you? Because that's really not what I mean when I said 'aggressive business strategies'."

Oliver snorted. "No, Felicity, I did not threaten the board of directors," he said. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." The elevator came to a stop, and Oliver stepped out into the lobby.

"In the meantime, though," he said, lowering his voice and plucking the insulting visitor's badge from his chest to toss to a nearby guard, "I need you to look into someone."

"Not even CEO yet and I'm already back to being your personal internet researcher," Felicity sighed.

"Put it on my tab," Oliver replied without missing a beat as he snaked through the crowded lobby. "His name is Stephen Latimer; he worked in Acquisitions at Stellmoor International."

"That's the same division as Isabel," Felicity noticed immediately.

"Correct," Oliver said. "So you can imagine my trepidation at finding him among the candidate pool."

"You don't think Stellmoor is still coming after us, do you?" Felicity asked.

"I don't know," Oliver sighed as he stepped through the revolving door. "All I know is that I don't trust him, and I sure as hell don't want him sitting in the CEO's chair."

"Find dirt on Latimer, got it," Felicity said. "Anything else?"

"Spot me cab fare?" Oliver suggested hopefully.

"In your dreams," Felicity snorted, and the line went dead.

No sooner than it did however, and it was suddenly ringing again, this time from Diggle. Immediately, Oliver brought it up to his ear. "Digg, did you find him?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Diggle replied.

"Where?"

Diggle snorted. "Where else?"

Oliver sighed. "I'll be there."

000

The Starling City Police Department precinct headquarters were always a busy place. But in the aftermath of Slade's attack, the place was an absolute madhouse. It was all Oliver could do to find Diggle, sitting in the waiting room, amidst the sea of blue uniforms and other visitors.

"Oliver," the bodyguard said, standing up and waving a hand to draw attention. Quickly, Oliver stuck out an elbow, sliding his way through the crowd. "How'd the interview go?"

"Not bad," Oliver said, loosening his tie and popping the top button of his shirt. It was incredibly hot in the crowded station. "What's the story here?"

"Nothing we haven't heard before," Diggle sighed, sticking his hands in his coat pockets. "He got picked up a couple hours ago for beating the living daylights out of some street punks in the Glades. Claims it was in self-defense, but it's not like he's a stranger around here, so someone in the DA's office evidently thinks it's time to teach him a lesson."

Oliver frowned. "They're pressing charges?"

"Assault in the second degree," Diggle confirmed. "Among others. I tried to get in to see him, but he doesn't want to talk to anyone."

"He'll talk to me," Oliver growled, and strode up to the processing desk. He couldn't allow Roy to languish in police custody; the longer he was here, the more likely it was for some cop to recognize his face and match it to the suspect who killed a police officer during a mirakuru-fueled rampage through the city.

"I'm Oliver Queen," he announced to the officer at work. "I'm here to see Roy Harper."

The officer set aside a stack of papers, looking him up and down. "Oliver Queen? The pretty boy himself? What's a high-roller like you want with some street ruffian?"

"That's my business," Oliver responded, his tone icy.

"Well, actually, sir," the officer responded, standing up, "you're in the precinct headquarters, which kind of makes it my business, too." He glanced down at a paper to his left. "The kid waived his visitation rights, so unless I see a lawyer's ID badge, you're not getting in there."

Oliver took a deep breath, suppressing his frustration. "I'm a friend of Officer Lance," he said. "He can vouch for me."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Officer Lance? He isn't vouching for anyone right now. Bit hard to do that in a coma."

Oliver blinked. "Pardon me?"

The officer tilted his head. "Oh, you hadn't heard? Officer Lance is taking up permanent residency at Starling City General these days, courtesy of major internal damage from those juiced-up freaks that rampaged through here a few weeks ago." He snorted. "Some friend you are. Didn't even know, did you?"

Oliver was momentarily stunned, still trying to figure out how Lance could have been hospitalized without his knowledge. It must have been right after the battle, when he and Felicity and Diggle were flying out to Lian Yu with Slade in tow. He had been so busy after returning to Starling City, what with salvaging the Foundry and preparing for his CEO interviews, he hadn't even thought to check up on the Lances. Laurel was probably furious.

"Look," he said, "I was out of town for a few weeks, I didn't realize-"

"No, you look," the officer interrupted, leaning down and placing his hands on his desk. "There's a lot of things you don't realize, Mr. Queen. We've lost a lot of good people the past few weeks, which I'm sure you didn't know, being out of town and all. We're understaffed and overworked, and if you think there's any way in hell I'm going to let you, a broke trust-fund brat with the gall to try and use a seriously-injured officer's name to get access to a street punk with more priors than birthdays, past this desk, well, then you've got another thing coming." He shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. "I'm sure the Lance family is just delighted to have you as a friend."

"Actually, they are."

Oliver's head spun around, and was amazed to see none other than Laurel herself striding towards the desk, heels tapping staccato on the tile. She looked tired, if the bags under her eyes were any indication, but at the same time much healthier, her skin no longer so pale and drawn but rather vibrant and full.

"Ms. Lance!" the officer stammered. "What can I do for you?"

"You can start by letting me see a detainee," Laurel said pointedly. "One Roy Harper."

"He's your client?" the officer asked, puzzled. "But the attorney of record in his previous cases is-"

"I'm not his attorney," Laurel interrupted, pointing to her badge. "I'm with the DA's office, here to serve pre-trial notice."

"Oh," the officer said. "Well, by all means, then, come with me." As he started to turn away, he looked back at Oliver. "You stay here."

"Actually, he's with me," Laurel said.

The officer frowned. "He's not in the DA's office."

"No," Laurel said, "But Mr. Queen often assists me with cases. Outside the courtroom, of course. In fact, he's been working with Mr. Harper for several months now."

The officer looked Oliver over with suspicion. "And a fine job he's done," he muttered.

"Officer, I specifically invited Mr. Queen here as extra-judicial counsel. If I go in, he goes in," Laurel said unequivocally.

The officer glanced between the two, still suspicious, but finally relented. "Alright," he said. "But you keep a close eye on him."

"I won't let him out of my sight," Laurel promised.

Grumbling, the officer turned and guided them back through the station, towards the holding cells where suspects were detained prior to the filing of charges. "Third from the end," the officer indicated. "Ten minutes."

"We'll be brief," Laurel assured him. The officer grunted, gave Oliver one last glare, and then headed back to his desk.

"Thanks for the save," Oliver said as soon as he had left.

Laurel smiled. "No problem. Officer Nolan is a good man, if a little untrusting."

"He has a right to be, after the last few weeks," Oliver replied, then immediately moved on to a more pressing question. "How is your father? I'm so sorry I haven't come to visit, it's just that-"

"You've been out of town, I know," Laurel finished. Seeing the apology start to form on his lips, she preempted him. "It's alright, I know you had…things to take care of. I didn't want to burden you with another worry."

"Your family's welfare is never a burden, Laurel," Oliver insisted. "It's a responsibility. Is he…is he going to be okay?"

Laurel swallowed, looking down. "I…I don't know. The doctors say he had lots of internal bleeding, that his spleen had been ruptured. But they also said the coma is a good sign, that his body can heal itself better. It's just…" she took a breath, raising a hand to wipe at her eyes. "…I mean, with Sara gone, and now he's in the hospital, I just feel so helpless, and-"

"Hey," Oliver said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Right now, all we can do is wait. Your father will pull through. He's too mean to die."

Laurel smiled. "I hope you're right." She pulled herself together, quickly wiping away whatever had been starting to form in her eyes. "We should probably head in," she said, indicating the door to the holding cell.

"Probably," Oliver agreed, and held the door open.

A familiar sight greeted them on the inside; Roy, handcuffed to the desk, glaring with trademark sullenness at the wall. As the door opened, he looked up, only for his expression to shift from boredom to contempt.

"I should have known you two would track me down," he muttered, slouching back into the chair. "You just can't let me go, can you? So now you're here for, what? Another lecture? Because I can guarantee you that I'm not listening."

"No lecture," Oliver promised, shutting the door and sitting down in the chair across from Roy while Laurel leaned against the door to keep an eye out for eavesdroppers. "Just a question: why?"

Roy snorted. "Seriously? That's your question?"

"That's my question," Oliver confirmed.

Roy glared for a while, working his jaw back and forth before finally, reluctantly working out an answer. "I was angry. You and Diggle and Felicity were gone, without so much as a note. Thea was at least courteous enough to leave one, but somehow it didn't give me much comfort." The last sentence was practically spat across the table. Roy looked down at his hands, restrained by the cuffs. "I was going insane just sitting around. I had to do something. Anything."

"So you decided to go tune up a couple of gangbangers in broad daylight," Oliver said.

"You know what, Oliver, yeah," Roy snarled, leaning across the table. "Yeah. That's what I did. And, frankly, I don't give a shit about what you think, because they deserved it, and I needed it."

Oliver stayed calm, folding his hands. "Do you think this is what Thea would want? For you to sink back into anger and hatred?"

"Oh, you did not just-" Roy snapped. "Thea _left _me, in case you didn't realize. She left me with no clue, no hint at all as to where."

He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"You know, for the first few days she was gone, I honestly tried to find her," he said. "I thought, maybe she'd overreacted, maybe she was sitting in a train station or airport somewhere, just waiting for me to show up and take her back. So I looked. I looked everywhere I could possibly think to look, talked to anyone who might have had any idea where she had gone. But then I realized: she didn't _want _to be found. She was telling the truth in her note, something I'm not used to hearing from people in my life," he said this with a pointed glance at Oliver.

"I thought I could save the city and be with her, but I just ended up driving her away." He shook his head. "Thea was the one good thing in my life, the one person who thought there was some good in me. And now she's gone. So what does that say about me, hm?" he asked.

Oliver inclined his head. That was a lot to admit, especially for a person as emotionally-guarded and proud as Roy. "It says that you're a man who was willing to put the good of others, the good of this city, before himself," he said. "And that's the kind of man I need. If you come back, I can help you, and we can find Thea, and show her that you-"

"No, you don't get it!" Roy fumed, slamming his hand on the table. "Not only does she not want to be found, she doesn't want _me. _She left because she didn't trust me, didn't trust me after all the lies I told and dates I missed, all to help you. So why would I ever come back to you?"

"Because this isn't what you want," Oliver stated. Seeing Roy about to interrupt, he raised a hand. "Roy, I know you're angry. I know you're emotional. You have every right to be. But is this-" he swept a hand around, indicating the station, "-really your plan? You want to spend the rest of your life whaling on street thugs and bouncing in and out of police stations?" He shook his head. "Look, Roy, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that everything's going to be alright, or that a broken heart can be healed, because honestly, I'm not sure it can. But what I am going to tell you is that if you keep going down this path, keep taking to the streets to exorcise your personal demons, you're never going to change. And you're never going to prove her wrong."

Roy snorted. 'What happened to 'no lectures'?"

"This isn't a lecture," Oliver said. "It's a way out." He took a deep breath. "There are two paths before you, Roy, but only one of them leads forward. Thea left because she thought she couldn't trust you. So come back. Show me that you can be trusted. And then we will find her, and we will show her that she was wrong."

A long moment of silence passed between them before Roy finally spoke. "Look, even if I wanted to come back, there's still the problem of me facing a set of felony charges."

"That's where I come in," Laurel said, stepping forward. "I'm in the DA's office, and I can tell you that we've got bigger problems on our hands than prosecuting you. I can get those charges dropped in a heartbeat."

Roy frowned. "Then why am I still sitting here?" he asked, indicating the cuffs.

"Because I'm not getting you out until I know you won't be back in," Laurel answered. "And the only way I know you won't be back in here after a few days is if you're under Oliver's supervision."

"Well, it looks like I don't have much of a choice, now do I?" Roy asked.

"There's always a choice, Roy," Oliver said, standing up. "It's just up to you to make the right one."

"Right now," Roy said, "the right choice is whichever one gets me out of these damn cuffs."

Oliver nodded. "Well, there's your answer." He paused in the doorframe. "As soon as you get out, you call me."

Roy nodded. "Got it. Oh, and Laurel?"

"Yes?" the attorney stopped, looking over her shoulder.

Roy shifted, as if getting ready to say something uncomfortable. "Thank you."

Laurel smiled. "You're welcome."

The two stepped outside, closing the door.

"Laurel," Oliver caught her arm as she began to walk away. "Are you sure you want to be doing this? I mean, now that you know who I am, helping to release an associate of the vigilante could jeopardize your career if my secret ever comes to light."

Laurel gave a small smile. "Ollie, I've been jeopardizing my career by working with the vigilante for so long, I think I'd be bored if I wasn't. Besides, he's really not that bad of a guy."

Oliver smiled in return and pulled her into a quick hug. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Laurel assured him. "Anyways, I should get to work. Goodbye, Ollie," she said as she broke away.

"Goodbye," Oliver said. "I'll come visit your father soon, I promise."

"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear that," Laurel responded, but thanks were evident in her eyes as she turned away.

Oliver made his way back out to the waiting room, where Diggle stood, ever the patient one. "Any luck?" he asked. "I saw Laurel come in. She help you out with Roy?"

"Yeah," Oliver said. "Looks like we'll soon have an extra pair of hands to help clean up the Foundry."

Diggle chuckled. "You didn't tell him about that, did you?"

Oliver shrugged. "Oops."

000

It was almost midnight when the battered freighter slid into the murky waters of the Mumbai port, docking amidst a row of similar vessels and concluding its weeks-long journey with little ceremony.

Standing on the deck, Sara Lance leaned against the railing and surveyed the loading docks, a labyrinth of cargo containers, forklifts, and other machinery, an industrial jungle providing a multitude of ambush points.

Not that Sara was particularly worried about being ambushed; that same training ensured that she could handle herself, but the life she led meant that one never stopped observing and analyzing every aspect of their surroundings, always looking for possible escape and attack routes.

It was an exhausting way to live, but after so many years, Sara knew nothing else.

Well, that wasn't expressly true. She did still have memories, occasional flashbacks to her life before. Before her adoption into the League of Shadows, before the island that had changed her irrevocably.

Before she had gotten onto that boat with Oliver Queen.

Sara sighed. There had been a time, a short, fleeting time a few weeks prior when she thought that maybe, just maybe, that life was behind her. She had come home to Starling City, had found her family, had found Oliver.

More than found. The memory of those nights they shared in the Foundry still lingered with her, a tantalizing reminder of what could have been.

But she knew it was impossible. She and Oliver could not be; she had changed too much, had fallen too far into the darkness to be redeemed, to hang up her weapons and return to an ordinary life. And she would not drag Oliver into that darkness with her.

So here she was. Halfway around the world, preparing to rejoin the League, to meld back into the shadows from whence she came.

There was never any other way.

"A cold night to spend on deck."

Sara smiled and turned to face the owner of the cultured, feminine voice. "Couldn't sleep," she said.

"Odd," said Nyssa Raatko, daughter of Ra's al Ghul. She approached, taking a spot beside Sara on the railing. "I never took you for the type to get seasick."

Sara gave a small laugh. "No seasickness, just…a lot to think about."

Nyssa inclined her head. "You are still uneasy about returning to the League," she surmised. "About leaving your friends behind."

Sara sighed. "I didn't think it would be this difficult," she said. "I know I could not have stayed, but…that did not make it any easier."

Nyssa placed a hand on her shoulder. "Leaving those we love is never easy," she said. "You can only embrace your future with the hope that you will see them again."

Sara smiled, turning back out to face the water. "When did you become so wise?"

"The years change us all," Nyssa replied. "You, of all people, should know that-" the rest of her sentence was lost in a sudden choking sound.

"Nyssa?" Sara spun around, and found the daughter of Ra's al Ghul prostrate on the deck, a single black dart protruding from her neck.

Immediately, Sara threw herself into motion, flipping backwards just as another dart parted the air past her own neck with an ominous whistle.

Before she could even think of calling out for help, however, a black form came vaulting over one of the shipping containers on deck. In the darkness it was nearly impossible to discern what the man was wearing, but it was unmistakably similar to the League of Shadows armor, all black robes and studded armor pieces, and in his hands, a black bow.

Sara again leapt to the side, not a moment too soon as a black-shafted arrow thudded into the deck where she had stood a moment before. Weaponless and unprepared, Sara knew her only chance lay in closing the distance with her attacker to deny him the use of that bow. Throwing herself into a somersault as another arrow whistled past her head, she broke into a full sprint, leaping up and kicking off a nearby shipping container to come plummeting down at the hooded figure, leading foot out in a flying kick.

Without pause he reached out, caught her incoming boot and twisted.

Sara cried out in pain as something snapped in her knee, sending her crashing painfully to the steel deck. Lances of agony shot through her leg with every motion as she tried to crawl away, but the dark archer would not be deterred. Stalking relentlessly over, he delivered a sharp kick to her ribs that caused her to double up, gasping for air, then raised his boot to turn her over.

But Sara was not going to go down so easily. Through the haze of pain, she saw him lift up his boot, and saw her chance. Lashing out with her good leg in a sudden furious spasm of motion, she caught him in the back of the knee, dropping him down to the deck beside her. Forcing the pain out of her mind, she rolled over on top of him, her hands closing around his neck and slamming his head back into the deck as she sought to strangle him.

Rather than trying to pry her clawing hands away from his neck, however, her attacker simply pushed up, delivering a sharp blow to her already-injured ribs. Sara gasped, and in that moment her grip around his neck weakened a little.

That was all it took. Sucking in a breath of air, the hooded figure grabbed Sara under the arms and flung her off of him, into a shipping container. Sara bounced off the corrugated metal and crumpled to the ground, body battered and broken even as her nerves screamed with pain. The man walked calmly over and seized her by the neck, hauling her up to eye level.

Gasping for air, Sara knew she would be unable to break his grip, and so she lashed out with her hand, catching the man right on the jaw in a punch that would have knocked most adversaries out clean.

The man's head snapped back, but he did not go down, did not even seem to acknowledge the blow as his head returned to its usual position. Eyes bulging, Sara summoned all her rapidly-draining energy and threw it into one last punch, aimed directly at the man's nose, where a break could easily drive cartilage back into the brain with fatal effects.

Scarcely halfway to her target, however, her fist was suddenly stopped cold, enveloped by her attacker's hand as he caught her punch like a tossed tennis ball in a steely grip. With her last precious stores of oxygen Sara strained against the man's vice-like grip, but it was useless.

Then his thumb found a spot on the side of her neck, and then the darkness claimed her.

**A/N: Hey all. I was going to end this chapter with just Sara getting darted as well, but then I realized that a.) she's a badass and b.) you guys deserved an action scene after wading through all the finance talk and Roy drama earlier. So thanks for sticking around. Hope it was worth it. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**A/N: Hey guys, back again. Once more, thanks for all the reviews and support; you really have no idea how encouraging it is. I think this is the most consistently fast I've ever updated a story before.  
Anyways, lots of dialogue and exposition in this chapter, just a heads up. But it's necessary to fill in some much-needed backstory. Hope you enjoy!  
Still don't Arrow, BTW.**

Thea was in pain.

Not that she could really tell. After beginning her training in the Himalayan fortress-monastery of Nanda Parbat, Thea had been in pain for so long that it was difficult to remember anything else. It was just another physical sensation, another discomfort she had to tune out in order to focus on the task at hand.

Right now, that task was simple: cross the sand-filled pit in front of her by stepping on the wooden stilts that stood vertically at varying heights and locations within it. As Thea was rapidly learning, however, in Nanda Parbat, 'simple' rarely translated into 'easy'. This was her twelfth attempt in the past hour, and she had yet to make it more than halfway across the pit. The stilts were scarcely more than two inches in diameter, forcing her to stand on her very tiptoes, and the League members who stood on either side and repeatedly swiped at her with bamboo poles didn't make things any easier.

Right on cue, another one of those poles came swinging in, low at her feet, and Thea had to jump, even though she wasn't ready. Leaping forward and up as the pole swept under her legs, she managed to plant one foot on top of the next stilt in the sequence, but didn't have enough momentum to bring her other leg forward and plant it as well. She wobbled for a moment, trying valiantly to balance on one foot, before another pole swept in without mercy and buffeted her in the small of her back, sending her toppling forward into the pit.

Immediately, Thea rose, spitting out sand, and jumped, grabbing the edge of the pit to haul herself back out. Not an unimpressive feat for a girl who could barely do a single pull-up before Malcolm had arrived to take her away, but Thea had discovered the capability in the time hence to do many things she never before considered possible.

_I was weak then,_ she thought, dusting sand off of her palms and preparing for another run at the pit. _I will be strong._

She was about to take her first leap into the pit when she suddenly became aware that the room had gone quiet. Confused, she glanced around, saw trainers and trainees alike all standing motionless and staring at the same place.

At the same person.

There he was, standing in a doorframe at the entrance to the room. Dressed in simple black robes, but bearing an unmistakably regal demeanor, the man was of average height and build, his only distinguishing facial features a neatly-trimmed goatee and a thin scar that traced from his right temple down to his chin. His skin was tanned but not dark, his eyes a steely silver that matched the graying temples which were the only indication of his true age.

He was the type of man who could vanish into any crowd, anywhere in the world. The type of man you would never notice standing next to you until it was too late.

For Ra's al Ghul, Head of the Demon, was in all likelihood one of the deadliest individuals in the world. The League of Shadows followed him with a nearly cult-like zealotry, and it was evident why; he was possessed of a charisma that few men are ever gifted, the rare ability to inspire true devotion in his followers.

That devotion was evident as Ra's made one simple gesture, a flick of his wrist, and everyone in the room resumed their previous activity, the air once again filled with the sounds of training.

But as Thea stood at the edge of the pit, she could feel Ra's' gaze on her as surely as if he'd been standing right beside her. She didn't know if this was some sort of test, an appraisal of her ability to function under pressure, but what she did know is that she couldn't simply stand there any longer.

Taking a deep breath and willing herself not to think of just who, exactly, was watching, she took the first leap, toes finding the precarious first perch. The first bamboo pole came swinging in almost immediately, but she was already moving, jumping down to a lower stilt and then back up, ducking under another swung pole as she did so.

_Keep your momentum, that's the key_, she thought, focusing less on where she was stepping and more on where she was going to step next. Eyes forward, she made her away across a stretch of three consecutive stilts that brought her near to the halfway point.

But as she made the leap towards the next one, she saw her mistake. In midair, however, it was too late to correct.

The bamboo pole caught her square in the midsection, driving the air out of her lungs and sending her crashing into the pit. Groaning, she rolled over and staggered to her feet, preparing her burning shoulder muscles to once more haul herself out of the pit.

Only to find herself staring at a hand.

Thea frowned. The trainers never offered to help her up; it was simply assumed that she would take that duty upon herself.

It was a shock, then, when she looked up to find the proffered hand belonged to none other than Ra's al Ghul, kneeling at the edge of the pit.

Confused and amazed, Thea looked back and forth between the hand and his eyes several times, still unsure if he was genuinely offering to help her or if this was another test.

"No test," Ra's said with a smile that could only be described as kindly as he practically read her mind. "Even the greatest among us fall sometimes. It should be any comrade's honor to help a fellow to their feet."

"Thank you, my liege," Thea said, still astonished as she reached up. His hand closed around hers, and she was lifted effortlessly up.

"Will you walk with me, Thea?" he asked, folding his arms into his robes.

Thea blinked. This encounter kept getting even more unbelievable. "Oh! Um, of course, your excellence."

Ra's inclined his head. "Please, Thea, there is no need for formalities. We are all family in the League. Please, call me Ra's."

Thea smiled hesitantly. "Alright, Ra's," she said, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar Arabic etymology. "Where are we going? If you don't mind me asking."

Ra's smiled again. "Not at all." He paused, then simply said, "Bring your cloak."

Thea obliged, grabbing the heavy winter garment from where she had abandoned it at the start of her training session and fastening it around her shoulders. Ra's waited patiently, then ushered Thea out of the training room and into the halls of Nanda Parbat.

Thea still didn't completely know her way around the labyrinthine passages of the monastery, and there were entire levels that she had yet to earn the right to enter. Ra's, however, led her steadily upwards with unerring direction. Staircase after staircase, level after level; Thea had the distinct feeling that she was quite literally ascending into the heavens.

As they came to the top of one last staircase, Ra's paused before a set of double doors. Nodding back to Thea, he threw them open.

Immediately the staircase was filled with a blast of freezing air, and Thea sucked in a sharp breath, pulling the cloak tighter around her. Ra's, however, seemed completely unaffected, stepping out onto the balcony beyond the doorway without even pulling up his hood.

Shivering but with no choice other than to follow, Thea stepped forward in his wake, out onto the balcony as he shut the door behind her.

They were standing at the top of a watchtower, rising from the monastery's angled roofs. From here they could see the entire valley, laid out before them, the azure glacier in the east still carving its way through the frozen mountains. A light snow was falling, the flakes tiny and crystalline against the slate-grey sky as a breath of glacial wind stirred them into dance.

Ra's stood by the railing, and Thea followed, but no words were forthcoming. Ra's simply continued to stare out across the valley, his expression inscrutable.

Thea wondered briefly if he expected her to speak first, if this was another test of initiative or some other such quality, but when she began to open her mouth, she immediately thought better, clamping it shut. Ra's would speak when he was ready, and not a moment sooner.

And so the seconds dragged on, eventually becoming minutes. For a while, Thea tried to keep track of time, but soon gave up, focusing instead on staying warm. The air this high in the Himalayas was thin and frigid, scraping the back of one's throat and nose like tiny daggers with each breath. She pulled her winter cloak as tight around her as she could, tensing muscles to keep the blood flowing. Cold was just a sensation, she knew, like pain. If she could endure pain, she could endure cold.

And so she endured, the minutes stretching longer and longer until Ra's finally spoke.

"You are learning patience," he observed, still looking out over the valley. "That is good. Your mind is developing alongside your body."

Thea paused before replying. "I have a lot to think about," she finally said.

Ra's smiled, turning back from the balcony to face her. "Yes," he concurred, "I am sure you do, Thea," He looked at her with an appraising eye. "You have changed much in your time here. Your training has only just begun, but you are vastly changed from the person you were before."

"That's good," Thea said, shaking her head. "Thea Queen was weak. A spoiled brat who trusted and loved the wrong people, and as long as I live I will be correcting her mistakes."

Ra's inclined his head. "But you are Thea Merlyn," he corrected. "And you have changed more than the simple exchange of a surname." He gestured out, indicating the valley below. "Few individuals have the courage and fortitude to make the climb to Nanda Parbat. Those are qualities that we cannot teach; they must be extant within every individual that wishes to make that climb. As you did."

Thea couldn't help but give a small, wan smile, remembering the circumstances of her initiation into the League of Shadows.

First, the grueling ascent to the mountainside monastery. Struggling to the edge of sanity against brutally cold winds and snows, unforgiving rock faces and treacherous, twisting mountain paths, all the while guarding with single-minded purpose the precious blue flower plucked from the eastern slopes. Thea had lost count that day of how many times the mountain nearly claimed her life, could remember only the unrelenting agony of her muscles and the mental curses she spewed at her father for forcing her to make such a climb. It was only the desire for revenge that had spurred her on, a relentless fire that warmed her body against the freezing air and matched the burning of her limbs, driving her ever upwards towards the promise of strength.

But even that fire could only propel her for so long. When she finally reached the summit, when the monolithic silhouette of the monastery she had half-believed didn't really exist finally reared out of the billowing snow, her body finally gave up, collapsing to the floor the moment she entered.

Malcolm had been there, waiting. Accompanied by a host of black-robed fellow initiates, he had congratulated her on making the climb, had helped her to her feet, and then asked if she was ready to begin.

When she replied that she could barely stand, he had driven a fist into her stomach.

As she had writhed on the floor, gasping in pain and confusion, Malcolm had only continued to rain blows upon her. She could still hear his yells, beaten into her brain by the force of his attacks: "Death does not wait for you to be ready! It does not wait for you to stand!" He had then grasped her collar and hauled her up to her feet until they were eye-to-eye. "And it will never show mercy," he had growled, his eyes like chips of obsidian.

Thea had tried to fight back after that, had thrown a pitiful punch that Malcolm caught with an expression bordering on disgust as he twisted it harshly behind her back and forced a pained cry out of her throat.

That had been her first training session, and it had ended in the span of a minute with her unconscious on the floor. When she came to nearly a day later, Malcolm was at her bedside. She had flinched when she first saw him, but instead of another flurry of blows and curses at her weakness, he was offering hot tea and applying soothing ointments to her wounds.

It had been necessary, he explained, to induct her into this new way of life, where there could be no weakness, no mercy, no second chances. The same had been done to him upon his arrival, a tradition of the League stretching back centuries.

"I love you, Thea," he had promised, "more than you will ever know. And because I love you, I must make you strong."

Thea turned to face Ra's. "I owe my father everything," she said simply.

Ra's nodded. "Ah, yes. Malcolm Merlyn. Our finest archer." He looked at her once again. "You have his bearing," he stated. "He always had a certain nobility to him."

Ra's turned, looking back out over the mountains again. "Did your father ever tell you his entire history with the League?" he asked.

Thea frowned, searching through her memories of conversations with Malcolm. They were few, mostly terse; Malcolm was not an overly-expressive man. "No," she said finally, "only that there had been some tension between you."

Ra's smiled. "Malcolm was always prone to understatement," he stated, turning back to face Thea. "The truth is, until a few short months ago, your father and I were sworn enemies."

Thea cocked her head. "What? I thought you trained him."

"I did," Ra's confirmed, dipping his head and studying his hands for a moment. He took a deep breath, then began.

"Your father came to us following the death of his wife. He was a broken, angry man with only one goal: revenge. I saw the potential in him, but also the danger; the path of vengeance is a dangerous road, one that often consumes those who choose to walk it." He said this with a sideways glance at Thea, and she quickly cast her eyes down, once again unnerved by how easily he could read her thoughts.

After a moment, Ra's continued. "He was desperate, pleading on his knees that we teach him how to bring justice to those who murdered his wife. And so we took him in, and I took it upon myself to train him."

Ra's looked out into the mountains again, his eyes dark. "He was one of my greatest pupils," he said, "and unquestionably the most proficient with a bow. Under my tutelage he became a master, and served the League for two years with unquestioning loyalty. He was my most trusted disciple, the Hand of the Demon."

Ra's lapsed into silence again, and Thea stepped up next to him, drawn by the chance to find out what had really happened to Malcolm during the times he always refused to talk about with her.

Seeing the curiosity written on her features, Ra's spoke again. "But, the longer he stayed with the League, the more he began to chafe against its…restraints. He wanted to exact revenge upon his wife's killers, and would stop at nothing to achieve it. He became reckless in missions, often disobeying direct orders in order to carry out his twisted interpretation of justice." He paused to look at Thea again. "Let me be clear, Thea," he said. "All of us here in the League have killed. There are some in this world whose crimes deserve no less a punishment, and we are the ones who have meted it out for time immemorial. Death is our business as surely as I breathe." He closed his eyes for a second, then resumed. "But I had never seen a man come to enjoy killing so much as your father. He relished the chance to put an arrow into an evil man's heart as much as he cherished the memory of his beloved wife."

Thea blinked, surprised at hearing such an indictment from Ra's. She knew Malcolm was capable of mercilessness—the earthquake in the Glades was only the largest such example—but to hear such words from the leader of the League of Shadows was startling indeed.

But Ra's was only beginning. Folding his arms into his robes, he continued quietly. "It all came to a head after a mission in Thailand. Your father was contracted by a hospital owner to eliminate a local gang lord in Bangkok who was raiding the shipments of medical supplies to his hospital. But after discovering that the gang was only stealing the drugs to care for their sick family members whom the client would not permit entry into his hospital for expense reasons, Malcolm killed the client instead."

Ra's exhaled deeply, and Thea was entranced, both by the story and the amount of emotion it was exacting from the legendary assassin. "Such an action is explicitly forbidden by our codes," he said. "Regardless of the client's involvement, we are bound by our word in contract as assassins. It is our honor, our dedication, which separates us from the common vigilante." A muscle in his jaw twitched as he continued. "When I heard what had happened, I demanded that he return at once, and told him exactly that. But he would not apologize. He claimed that if we in the League would not combat true injustice, regardless of our honor, that he would do so himself, codes be damned."

Ra's sighed again. "And in that moment, as I looked into his eyes, I knew that I had only two choices. I could allow him to remain in the League, and continue on this doomed crusade, or I could release him."

He bowed his head. "I had never released anyone from their oaths to the League before. They are supposed to be binding, eternal." He looked up again. "But your father gave me no choice. If I allowed him to remain with us, his devotion to revenge would have destroyed himself, and the League's reputation with him. And so I released him."

Ra's shook his head. "At first he was confused, even angry. But I made clear that I would not sacrifice the principles of the League for his personal vendetta, and then he left without a word. And so I thought I had seen the last of Malcolm Merlyn."

Thea dipped her head. "Until…"

"Until the earthquake that leveled a quarter of Starling City," Ra's confirmed, his tone now icy. "Malcolm's self-proclaimed 'Undertaking', all the proof I needed that releasing him from the League was the right decision. For some time afterwards, I, like most others in the world, thought he was dead at the hands of Starling's resident vigilante. It was the most fitting death I could imagine for him, undone by the man who most resembled him.

"But Malcolm's rage would not be so easily extinguished. Sustained by his anger, he survived, and some time later I retired to my quarters one night to find him awaiting me there."

Ra's shook his head, anger clear in his tone. "He wanted shelter, protection, the chance to join forces with the League so that we might, in his words, 'destroy the greatest evil of our time'; by which, of course, he meant Starling City itself.

"I made clear to him that his Undertaking was a blatant insult to the principles and code of the League, and that he was no longer welcome in Nanda Parbat. When I ordered him to leave, he attempted to resist, and we fought."

Ra's gave a small smile and tilted his head to the side, indicating the scar that ran from his temple to his chin. "I had trained him well, for your father gifted this mark to me that night; the only man to ever draw blood against me. But for all his passion, he forgot who trained him, and in the end, I remained the master. With my blade to his neck, I could have ended him that night, forever."

Thea took a step closer. "But you let him live," she said.

Ra's simply nodded.

"Why?" she asked.

Ra's' lips twitched. "Perhaps I had a moment of weakness. Perhaps I committed the greatest sin I caution my students against and let my emotions cloud my judgment. Whatever the case, I would not kill the man who I had for so long counted as my friend. And so I let him go, with a warning never to set foot in Nanda Parbat again.

"He left, and as soon as he did, I realized what a grave mistake I had made. Word soon filtered back to me that he was once again donning the armor of the League—the armor he was no longer worthy to wear—in order to worm his way back into influence in Starling City. I swore then that if I ever had the chance again, I would kill him, a situation that was only made simpler when your mother approached one of my agents to draw up a contract for Malcolm's life."

Thea stepped back in shock, and Ra's nodded. "Yes, it's true. After Malcolm found out that he was your father, he ordered Moira to tell you the truth. And your mother responded by requesting that the League eliminate him." Ra's smiled. "Ah, the lives and drama of the idle rich. In any case, the League accepted the contract, and for some time, your father was our highest priority."

Thea blinked, still digesting the story thus far. "Then how did he end up not only alive, but back with the League?"

Ra's dipped his head once. "A fine question indeed." He turned out once again to face the valley below, eyes roaming the distant mountainsides. "You will find, Thea, that life is not a simple thing. With enough time and different circumstances, anything becomes possible. Friends become enemies, enemies become friends. And the man whom you are hunting spares your daughter's life."

Thea raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Ra's obliged. "My daughter, Nyssa, has always had somewhat of a chip on her shoulder," he explained, his tone equal parts paternal affection and clinical analysis. "Growing up in my shadow, she has constantly felt as if she has to match up against me, to prove herself. What better way for her to prove that she is worthy as my heir than to kill the League's most dangerous enemy at the time?" He shook his head. "Bold, but foolish, my daughter tracked Malcolm to his lair in Starling City, under the guise of attempting to return a wayward League member, Sara Lance—ah, you know the name?" he asked at the flash of recognition on Thea's features.

"Sara was…a friend of the family," Thea confirmed hesitantly.

"Then you should know that Nyssa cared deeply for Sara," Ra's said. "When she said that she was leaving to bring Sara back into the fold, I thought nothing of letting her go. By the time I found out her true intentions, it was too late to stop her.

"Nyssa ambushed Malcolm in his lair, but for all her youth and vigor, Malcolm had by far the greater experience." Here Ra's paused, working his jaw back and forth for a moment as if chewing over the uncomfortable words before continuing his tale. "They fought, and he defeated her. He had the chance to kill her then, to drive an arrow through her heart, and the Malcolm I knew would not have hesitated to do so if he thought it would help himself and hurt me."

"He let her live," Thea realized, speaking slowly. "Just as you let him live."

Ra's nodded. "Not only did Malcolm spare my daughter's life, he surrendered to her, and begged that he be brought back to Nanda Parbat to confess his sins. Having been bested by him, Nyssa was honor-bound to respect his request, and sent him back to me under heavy guard as she continued on her quest to find Sara.

"When Malcolm arrived here, bound and beaten, I was prepared to kill him myself. But as I raised my sword, I could tell something was different about him. Something had changed."

"What?" Thea asked, and Ra's turned to face her.

"You, Thea," he answered.

Thea frowned. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Ra's repeated. "As I began my stroke, he said, 'I die for my daughter knowing that you would do the same for yours.'

"Suspicious, I put up my sword for the moment, demanding an explanation. And Malcolm explained. He explained how he had found out that you were his daughter, Thea, and how it had changed him. He was no longer alone; he had another child, another chance at a family. And it changed him. His only goal was now to protect you." Ra's shook his head. "I didn't believe him at first, but after looking into his eyes, it was impossible not to realize that he was telling the truth. And after he saw that I recognized that, he broke down, repenting of all his sins and pledging his life to the League."

Ra's caught Thea's gaze, his eyes solemn. "You should be proud, Thea. Without you, your father may never have changed. And in all likelihood, he would be dead."

Thea exhaled slowly. "Well," she said, "that is certainly a lot to process." She had learned so much about her father in such a short time, it was almost as exhausting as a training session. One more question, however, still rolled in the back of her mind.

"So you let him rejoin the League like that?" she asked.

Ra's nodded. "I was hesitant at first, suspicious that a man could change his entire personality so completely, so quickly. But even if I was still untrusting of his words, the fact that he spared Nyssa's life put me in his debt, and his only request was to rejoin the League, that he might better be able to protect you. So I granted him a tentative readmission, contingent upon his conduct. He thanked me profusely, and took on the task of training new recruits, never requesting a single contract, far from the bloodthirsty killer I knew before. In fact, the only time he even requested to leave Nanda Parbat was to rescue you from Starling City."

"He really has changed," Thea murmured, unsure of what else to say.

"He has," Ra's confirmed, returning his gaze to the mountains. "Which is why I entrusted him with the task of meeting Nyssa and Sara in Mumbai for their return to Nanda Parbat. If there is any shred of falseness or duplicity left in him, those two will be sure to root it out."

000

Roy hit the sparring mat with all the dignity of a sack of potatoes, his cheek burning a bright red from where the bamboo stick had caught him square across the face.

"Gah," he groaned, rolling over. "Did not see that one coming."

"Now you know how the rest of us felt," came the voice of John Diggle, and Roy rolled over to find the burly man offering him a hand up. Roy took it appreciatively, and Diggle hauled the younger man to his feet.

"I have to admit," Roy said as he settled back into sparring stance, raising his own pair of bamboo shafts while keeping an eye on Diggle's hands, "with the exception of the occasional bouts of insanity, I was actually starting to enjoy the whole super-human thing."

"The mirakuru made you weak," declared a new voice, grunted from the rafters, and Roy and Diggle looked up to see Oliver working through another set of pull-ups on one of the Foundry's undamaged support beams. "Physically, it made you stronger, and faster, but at the expense of your discipline," he continued, the words coming in choppy breaths between repetitions.

Finishing the set, Oliver let go of the bar, dropping to the floor. "Strength made you lazy," he asserted. "And sharper senses dulled your perception." Here he gave a quick nod to Diggle, and before Roy could even think to react, the soldier obliged Oliver's unspoken command, arms blurring into motion to deliver a painful double-tap of blows to Roy's ribs.

"Oh, come on!" Roy yelped, spinning away from the bodyguard before any further punishment could be delivered. "I wasn't ready!"

"Welcome back to mortality," Diggle deadpanned, raising his sparring sticks again. "I'll be your guide."

"Don't hurt him too bad, Digg," Oliver said, grabbing a towel. "We still need him to sweep up after we're done."

"Got it, boss," Diggle replied. "Body blows only."

"I did not sign up for this-" Roy began, but Diggle had already launched into motion, and Roy was forced to bring his own sticks up to defend himself, bamboo meeting bamboo as a rapid-fire storm of _clacks _started echoing through the Foundry.

"Anything new?" Oliver asked as he left the training area, toweling off. While the Foundry was still far from complete repair, the combined efforts over the team had helped clear the place up to where Oliver no longer had to step over debris piles as he made his way to the final member of their team.

"Nope," replied Felicity, looking up from her laptop with an irritated expression. "Just like the last time you asked. Five minutes ago. Or the last time you asked. Five minutes before that." She sighed. "You know, there's really no need for me to even be down here," she said, indicating the bank of destroyed computers that used to be her sanctum and then her own laptop. "I could be doing all this from home. In my pajamas. With a nice cup of hot chocolate."

Oliver dropped a hand on her shoulder, and Felicity gave him an exasperated look.

"I'm sure you could," Oliver said quietly, "but now that Roy's back, we need get back into the habit of working as a team. He needs to know his place among us, which means you need to be here to help put him in his place if he ever oversteps it."

"So now I'm his adopted mother, too," Felicity sighed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Fantastic."

Oliver didn't bother retorting, knew he couldn't win that battle. Behind them, there was a meaty _thwack _as bamboo rod met flesh, followed by another yelp from Roy and a satisfied chuckle from Diggle.

"Again!" Oliver yelled over his shoulder, and as Roy's grumbling was replaced with the familiar cacophony of bamboo, he returned his attention to Felicity.

"Look," she said irritably, "I'm not going to work any faster just because you're standing there all hot and sweaty—I mean, not that kind of hot. Not that you aren't, uh, but, that's not—not what I meant. Just, ugh! Don't you have working out to do or something?" she huffed.

"I'm between sets," Oliver replied simply, trying to keep from smiling.

"Well, can you go be between sets somewhere else?" Felicity requested, her tone distracted again as her fingers continued to blur across the keyboard. "Because unless you can boost my wifi signal somehow with those abs, you're not helping me by breathing down my neck."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, but it took a second for Felicity to realize what she had said. Horrified, she clapped a hand over her mouth. "_Not _that I was staring at your abs," she insisted, stammering. "Obviously I'm working here. And your abs are none of my concern. At all."

Oliver knew he should leave, but there was a part of him that couldn't help but smile at the way Felicity's face flushed when she was embarrassed.

"Can you just…please?" Felicity said with a shooing motion.

Grin stretching wider, Oliver held up his hands in a gesture of surrender before returning to his impromptu pull-up bar. A single leap took him high enough to grab the crossbeam, and he plowed straight into his next set.

"How can you be so sure there's dirt on this Latimer guy?" Felicity asked, speaking around the pen that was now lodged in the corner of her mouth.

Oliver blew out a breath as he finished his latest repetition, pausing at the bottom to hang a moment, fully suspended. "I went to prep school with the guy," Oliver said. "Trust me, there's dirt. It's just a matter of finding it."

"Well, other than working in the same division as Isabel, I haven't been able to find anything," Felicity replied. "And as slimy as you think Latimer may be, we can't just put an arrow in him because he happened to be coworkers with her."

"I wasn't planning on putting an arrow in him, Felicity," Oliver grunted as he hauled himself up again. "Not yet, at least."

"I'll keep looking, then," Felicity promised with a tired sigh, "but if the board happens to name him as CEO, I wouldn't count on being able to blackmail him out."

Oliver gave a frustrated grumble, but powered through the remainder of his set in silence, his arms and shoulders burning as he dropped to the ground. Felicity's comment reminded him why they were all in the Foundry, and why he was working out more than he had in weeks.

Since the original CEO interviews, the board of directors at Queen Consolidated had conducted subsequent interviews and evaluations, narrowing the field of candidates down to five. A field that included both himself and Mr. Latimer.

The board was expected to make their final decision soon, and after Felicity had kicked Oliver out of her apartment so that he, in her words, "didn't wear through the carpet with his caged-animal pacing", Oliver had headed straight to the Foundry to work off the tension. Throughout the day, the rest of the team had joined him—or in Felicity's case, had been called in—and Oliver had attempted to channel all his nervous energy into the workout.

So far, it wasn't working. As Oliver took a drink from his water bottle, he unconsciously reached to check his phone, lying on the table. Unsurprisingly, there were no new emails or missed calls in the five minutes since he had checked it last.

Oliver was unaccustomed to feeling so nervous, so powerless. There was nothing he could do to affect the board's decision anymore, and that frustrated him to no end.

Forcing himself to think of something else, he turned to face where Roy and Diggle were training, a blur of arms and bamboo shafts. Roy was learning the stick-fighting techniques Oliver had taught Diggle surprisingly fast, but his face was still a tight mask of concentration as he struggled to keep up with the more experienced man's pace.

As Oliver watched, Diggle suddenly changed that pace, whipping one of his arms into motion to catch Roy across the jaw. Roy swore, stumbling backwards, but Diggle didn't pursue, saw no value in further bruising the teenager's body and ego.

"Variable acceleration," Diggle explained, letting his arms fall to his side. He glanced sideways at Oliver. "Care to elaborate?"

Oliver smiled, thinking back to the early days of his crime-fighting, when it had been just him and Diggle in the Foundry and he had taught Diggle the very same concept during one of their sparring matches.

"Never let yourself fall into a rhythm with your opponent," Oliver told Roy as he made his way over. "At least not to the point where you are predictable. If two fighters are working at the same speed, a sudden changeup can spell the end."

Roy looked sullen, nursing his now bright-red jaw. "So how do I tell when he's about to throw a curveball?"

"Watch his body," Oliver replied. "Specifically, the feet and the hips. When your opponent is standing, all his moves will start and end in the feet and the hips. How they're planted and how they move will tell you more about his next move than anything else."

"Hips don't lie, got it," Roy replied with a snarky grin, and Diggle promptly rapped him across the wrist.

"Ow, what the hell?" Roy barked, jumping backwards. "Come on, it was just a joke!"

"I know," Diggle said. "And that was just for fun."

Oliver shook his head, turning back towards the pull-up bar.

And then his phone rang.

Oliver froze the instant the tone went off, as did everyone else. Diggle and Roy stopped sparring, turning to face him. Felicity looked up from her laptop, the Foundry suddenly eerily quiet without the steady rattle of her fingers on the keys.

So Oliver scooped up the phone.

"Hello, this is Oliver," he said.

"Mr. Queen, good morning," the voice replied, and Oliver recognized the distinct accent immediately. "It's Mr. Dubois. I'm calling to congratulate you on making it this far through the selection process."

As soon as he heard the words _this far_, Oliver's stomach was seized by ice, but he kept his tone pleasantly neutral. "Thank you, sir," he replied.

"Unfortunately," Dubois began, and Oliver's fears were confirmed, "the board has decided to award the position to another candidate."

Dubois continued to speak, the usual polite corporate nothings, thanking him for his application, but Oliver tuned him out.

He had lost. He had lost control of his family's company. It was a blow that struck him sharper than any physical injury he'd yet experienced, a crippling blow to his pride. As long as he could remember, Queen Consolidated had been a constant in his life, the one thing about his family that was always stable, always fixed within their future.

And now he had lost it.

Oliver's mind was still ringing in disbelief and confusion when he became aware of Dubois' voice once more.

"Mr. Queen? Are you there, Mr. Queen?

Oliver shook his head violently, forcing his tone back to congeniality. "Yes, I'm sorry. I was distracted for a moment. You were saying?"

"Yes, of course," Dubois said. "The board has also decided that we would like you to be present at the public announcement of the new CEO, and to say a few words, if you will."

At Oliver's silence, Dubois nudged, "The board feels it will be reassuring to investors to have the Queen son present to oversee and bless off the transition."

"Of course," Oliver said diplomatically, even as a thick vein bulged on the side of his neck. "I would be honored."

"Excellent," Dubois said. "The announcement will be made three days from now, at Queen Consolidated."

"I'll be there," Oliver promised.

"Good," Dubois replied. "I will inform Mr. Latimer immediately."

"Excuse me?" Oliver's tone froze over.

"Mr. Stephen Latimer was the board's desired candidate," Dubois answered. "Surely you two have met?"

Oliver gritted his teeth. "Yes, of course, Mr. Latimer. How silly of me to forget. I do apologize."

"Unnecessary, Mr. Queen," Dubois assured him. "Mr. Latimer is a most forgiving man. After receiving the position, his first request of the board was for you to be reinstated as Chief Administer of Public Relations."

"How generous." Oliver had to keep himself from spitting as he spoke the words. Latimer wanted the political boost of keeping the Queen name associated with the company, but without putting Oliver in a position where he could do any actual harm. Public Relations was to be his prison.

"Indeed," Dubois concurred. "I will pass your thanks on to him. Good night, Mr. Queen."

"Good night," Oliver replied, then viciously stabbed the "end call" button.

"Uh-oh," Felicity said as Oliver turned to face them. "You've got angry face again."

Diggle stepped off the mat. "The board chose someone else?"

Oliver nodded, but didn't elaborate. Instead, he grabbed his bow from its rack and stepped towards the mannequin that wore his Arrow gear.

"Whoa there, buddy," Diggle said, stepping in front of him. "Where do you think you're going."

"Back down, Digg," Oliver ordered, but Diggle wouldn't budge.

"I don't think so, man," he said. Not until you tell me just exactly where you think you're going."

"Obviously, I'm not as persuasive in a business suit as I am in a hood," Oliver responded. "I may not have been able to convince the board I was the right candidate, but I'm confident the Arrow can convince Mr. Latimer that accepting his new position as CEO will not be conducive to his continued existence."

"No." Diggle said flatly.

"Excuse me?" Oliver asked, adrenaline already beginning to pump through his veins.

"Look, Oliver," Diggle said, crossing his arms, "I know you're angry, and if this guy Latimer's half as slimy as you describe him to be, he may very well be a threat. But you running off half-cocked doesn't solve the problem of getting QC back."

"I can think of one problem it might solve," Oliver growled, moving to step around Diggle, but the bodyguard shifted and blocked his motion.

"Really, Oliver?" Diggle said, his tone disappointed. "You found a way to stop a drugged-up psychopath without killing him, but the instant an Ivy League prick beats you in the job hunt, you're ready to start putting arrows into him?"

"I'm not going to kill him," Oliver said angrily. "Just make it clear to him that accepting the job would not be a good idea."

"Oliver, _this_ is not a good idea," Diggle insisted.

"Noted," Oliver replied brusquely.

As he moved to circumvent his bodyguard, however, a new voice entered the conversation.

"Oliver, Digg's right."

At the sound of Felicity's voice Oliver stopped, rotating slowly to face her. She had stood up, placing her laptop aside to walk slowly over towards him. "Look," she said, pushing a lock of golden hair off of her glasses, "I know you're angry. You have every right to be. I know how much your family's company means to you. But stop and think for a moment about the repercussions of this."

When Oliver didn't respond, Felicity knew she had his attention, so she pressed her advantage. "Lots of people already think it's strange that the Arrow and Oliver Queen seem to be so closely intertwined. If Latimer suddenly drops out of the race that Oliver Queen is also running in after a visit from everyone's favorite green-clad crusader, those people are going to start asking questions."

"I'd make sure he wouldn't tell anyone," Oliver replied, but his voice lacked the conviction of earlier, and Felicity knew she was getting through to him.

"Is that really a risk you're willing to take?" she asked. "Besides, since the List, our mission has changed. The Arrow isn't your personal avenger anymore; he's the hero of Starling City. You can't let yourself be consumed by this persona. You may be Oliver Queen and the Arrow, but they're not the same _person_." Felicity winced. "I know that doesn't make much sense, but it does to me."

A long, stony silence followed, in which Oliver stared into her eyes with that steely gaze she had seen so often. But Felicity would not be cowed. She straightened and stared right back, meeting and matching his gaze with a confidence of her own.

The longer she held his eyes, Felicity could see the fight draining out of him, until finally he slumped, reluctantly setting the bow down. "You're right," Oliver said, his voice rough as he leaned forward onto the table. "I'm sorry."  
Felicity breathed a sigh of relief, nodding at the appreciative look Diggle sent her way.

"There's no to apologize," Felicity assured him, stepping up to place a hand on his back even as the other slid his bow out of reach down the table. "Just maybe take a moment to think next time before you go all…rawr," she finished, miming a dinosaur's arms.

In spite of everything, Oliver chuckled. "Got it," he said, straightening up.

"So," he said, turning to face the team. "Since Latimer won't be receiving a visit from our friend in green anytime soon, that brings us back to square one."

"Not quite square one," Felicity piped up, and Oliver looked at her with interest. She pointed back to her computer, then slowly started to inch backwards towards it. "Before you went all…rawr…I may have found something." She picked up the machine and turned it around. "Ta-da!" she proclaimed triumphantly.

She was met by silence.

"What is that?" Roy asked, expressing the feelings of the three males in the room perfectly.

"Oh, right, I keep forgetting all of you are technologically-challenged," Felicity said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Gesturing at the screen filled with datestamps and obscure file names, she explained, "This is the main server at Stellmoor International's Acquisitions division." She punched in a few more commands, and the maze of data suddenly transformer itself into an orderly list of names.

"Records of Stellmoor's purchases over the past two years, while Latimer was working there," Felicity explained, rotating the laptop around to face them again. "Notice anything?'

Oliver had scanned only about halfway down the screen before a name jumped out. "Silverstone Holdings," he muttered. "The newest investment management firm in Starling."

"Yup," Felicity said. "Stellmoor gobbled them up about a year ago, but no one paid much attention because Silverstone's market share was still pitiful. Everyone wrote it off as Stellmoor absorbing a potential competitor while they were still in infancy. But while Stellmoor raided all of Silverstone's funds before the ink had even dried on the acquisition contract, Silverstone itself was never formally incorporated. In fact, it was quietly released from formal membership a few months later and allowed to continue operating, albeit with a new Stellmoor-approved staff and with access to Stellmoor's pockets. But they weren't into investment management anymore." She tapped on the name, and a submenu opened up displaying yet another list of names. "They were retooled for acquisitions."

"Stellmoor turned them into a shell corporation for its own purchases," Oliver wondered quietly, his eyes running down the list of names.

UniTech Development. Carlisle Industries. Argent Consulting.

The names seemed random at first, but as he read further the pattern became clear. "These were all subsidiaries of Merlyn Global Group," he realized.

"And the list goes on," Felicity confirmed, sitting back down and crossing her legs. "After Malcolm's part in the Undertaking was revealed and Merlyn Global's stock plummeted, what was left of the board stripped it down and sold it for parts. Of course, not many companies wanted to be associated with a name as toxic as Merlyn Global, so Silverstone was able to scoop up the majority of MG's assets while Stellmoor kept its hands clean. And since the acquisitions are all technically under Silverstone's name, Stellmoor can't be hit with antitrust litigation, even though Silverstone 'voluntarily' garnishes some 90% of their post-tax revenue to Stellmoor's Swiss accounts."

Diggle let out a quiet whistle in the background, while Roy tried his hardest to look like he understood what was being discussed. It wasn't a very successful effort.

"This had to have been Isabel's work," Oliver said finally. "I can't believe in a million years that Latimer would be clever enough to set something like this up."

"Set it up, maybe not," Felicity agreed, "but he was working alongside her nonetheless. I wouldn't underestimate him."

"Point taken," Oliver said. "So how do we use this?"

Felicity bit her lip. "Well, nothing that Stellmoor did was technically illegal, and even if it violates the spirit of the law I can guarantee you they'll have an army of lawyers to defend the letter. The only real weapon we can pull out of this would be going public with the news that Stellmoor has been scooping up Merlyn's dirty laundry."

"Which would immediately focus scrutiny on Queen Consolidated, as well, now that Latimer is there," Oliver sighed.

Felicity shrugged. "I'm sorry. It's the best I could find."

"You never need to apologize to me, Felicity," Oliver said. He leaned back against the table again, looking off into the distance. "What could Stellmoor possibly want with Merlyn Global's subsidiaries? Malcolm is dead, and his puppet companies worthless."

"I don't know," said Diggle, stepping up. "But all this corporate intrigue is making me hungry. Big Belly Burger, anyone?"

"I'm in!" Roy said eagerly.

Oliver shook his head, but Diggle's suggestion made him realize that he hadn't eaten since that morning.

"Food," he agreed. "Then back to work."

"Why can't it ever be just food?" Felicity sighed wistfully, spinning her chair, and Oliver smiled. "You can go home if you'd like, Felicity."

"Please," Felicity snorted, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger as she rotated back around in the chair. "You guys are hopeless without me."

"True enough," Oliver admitted, his grin growing wider. "True enough."

000

Pain.

Darkness.

Those were the first two things that filtered into Sara Lance's consciousness. Her entire body ached, waves of pain washing through her nervous system. A fruitless attempt to move her arms informed her that her wrists were bound securely together against the back of the hard metal chair she was seated in, the knots clearly formed by an expert, as they were placed just out of the reach of her fingers if she bent her wrist to its limits.

Left with nothing else to do, Sara opened her eyes.

She immediately regretted the decision, a harsh, unfiltered light suddenly burning her retinas. She narrowed her eyes back to slits, looking down at the floor until her eyes could adjust.

When they finally did, she took stock of her surroundings.

They were not encouraging.

She was in a small, dingy cell, the stone walls dripping with the accumulated moisture of many years. The only light came from the small bulb that hung on the end of a chain from the center of the cell's roof, casting a pale circle of illumination on the hard floor.

And across the circle was…Sara's breath caught in her throat.

Nyssa was imprisoned directly across from her, in the same manner. Her face was severely marred, covered in blood and bruises, her head lolling to the side.

"Nyssa!" Sara attempted to cry, but her voice failed her, her throat parched, the word scratchy and unrecognizable. Sliding her tongue around, Sara was able to produce a modicum of saliva to wet her mouth, but her next attempt was not much better.

"Nyssa!" she wheezed. "Can you hear me?"

"I'm afraid she can't, dear."  
Sara froze. The voice came from behind her, against one of the walls. She would have twisted around to look, but she knew it wouldn't do any good, what with the pitiful lighting.

Still, it was the voice that gave her chills. It was smooth, confident, almost to the point of arrogance, and it bore a certain timbre that Sara found eerily familiar.

"Don't fear, she isn't dead," the voice continued, changing position now, circling around her, and the hair on the back of Sara's neck stood up. That voice was too familiar, one she hadn't heard in years but unforgettable nonetheless.

"She's just unconscious," the voice assured her, though she took no comfort in its declaration. "She awoke before you, actually. Screamed bloody murder when she did, so I had to put her back to sleep. Couldn't have her waking you up before you were ready, now could I?"

"Who are you?" Sara demanded. "What do you want?

"Oh, you'll know that soon enough," the voice replied, and then suddenly, a shape was blocking the light.

Sara narrowed her eyes, focusing on the outline. As her vision adjusted, the unmistakable armor of the League of Shadows came into focus, the man's hood concealing his face.

"You're with the League?" Sara laughed. "Do you know who you've kidnapped? Ra's will kill you when he finds out you've taken his daughter."

The figure laughed, and reached up, pulling down his hood.

"No, Ms. Lance," said Malcolm Merlyn. "He'll kill _for _me."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey guys, I'm back! And I still don't own Arrow.  
Anyways, here's Chapter 4. Oh, and just a warning, it's kind of super-long. Sorry. Lots of plot to plot.**

Chapter Four

"You know, no matter how much you glare at that newspaper, the headline isn't going to change," Felicity admonished as she swept into the kitchen of her apartment, fresh from the shower, her hair swathed in a bright pink towel.

Oliver snorted and tossed his copy of the _Starling City Sentinel_ to the side. Bran flakes weren't the most flavorful meal to begin with, but the sight of Starling City's flagship paper declaring _Queen Consolidated to Name New CEO: Stephen Latimer Expected Choice _in bold print was enough to make the bland cereal turn to ash in his mouth.

"Doesn't make it any less appetizing," Oliver grunted, shoveling another spoonful of the bran flakes into his mouth and grimacing. "Speaking of appetizing, why do you even buy these?"

"They're healthy," Felicity insisted.

"And therefore gross," Oliver replied.

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up," she said exasperatedly, grabbing a bagel from the fridge. "If you want your teeth-rotting Lucky Charms back, get a job and buy them yourself. And get your own apartment, while you're at it."

"Working on it," Oliver said, collecting his bowl and spoon and heading to the sink, "but my position appears to have been taken by a walking tube of hair gel."

Felicity sighed. "Oliver, we've been over this. Just swallow your pride, make the speech, and take your PR job. We'll figure out where to go from there once you're not broke anymore."

Oliver gritted his teeth as he washed out the bowl. "It's not that simple. Latimer only offered me that position because it would look bad to completely cast me out from the company. So he put me where I could do the least possible damage, where I'll constantly have to defend the company's image. It's a dead end. Internal exile."

"And how many times have you let that stop you before?" Felicity queried, patiently spreading cream cheese over her bagel. "It's a starting point, Oliver. Some place you probably would have started anyways if your last name wasn't Queen. And at the very least it'll get you out of my apartment. So for my sanity's sake, please, just suck it up, put on a smile, and act like you're grateful. For once."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for the pep talk, coach."

"My pleasure," Felicity replied. "Now go get dressed."

Oliver gave a mock salute and marched sharply out of the kitchen, smiling as he heard Felicity mutter "ass" to herself as he left.

As always, though, she had a point. The logical decision in this situation would be to simply put on a smile and gratefully accept the position in PR, knowing it could be a springboard.

But knowing Latimer, he would cut that board off the instant Oliver started to get any momentum. Accepting the job might be the logical thing to do, but Oliver knew it wouldn't make taking back the company any easier.

Cursing Latimer's name for the umpteenth time that morning, Oliver picked out his suit, a lighter grey color more appropriate for daytime wear, and matched it with a navy tie and a white shirt and pocket square. Lacing up his oxfords, he consulted the mirror and decided against a shave, deciding Latimer's victory lap wasn't a sufficient occasion for him to remove his trademark stubble.

As Oliver fastened his suit button, there was a knock at the door. Latimer had insisted that Oliver be driven to the ceremony in a "proper vehicle", which Oliver knew had been the man's way of not-so-subtly rubbing Oliver's face in his sudden poverty.

Nevertheless, it would be undignified for the Queen scion to arrive in anything less than a town car, and so Oliver was forced to paste another smile on his face and accept the man's humiliating charity.

"Are you sure you don't want to ride in with me, Felicity?" Oliver called as he prepared to head out the door.

Felicity stepped around the corner to the kitchen, her head still swathed in that bright pink towel. "Do I look like I'm ready to go anywhere?" she asked, deadpan. "I already told you: Digg will pick me up later, and we'll show up when it all starts."

Oliver shrugged. "Can't blame a guy for trying."  
Felicity shook her head, but Oliver could see the edges of her lips curling up. "Just get in the car, Oliver," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," Oliver responded, whipping off another mock salute and stepping out the door before she could respond.

The driver was waiting for him, but it wasn't Diggle, so Oliver didn't bother to acknowledge the man's too-chipper 'good morning, Mr. Queen' and simply headed straight for the vehicle. It was a Rolls, one of the newer models, a burnished silver, but Oliver wasn't going to let himself be fooled; Latimer had sent the car to dig at Oliver's pride more than to ensure he was comfortable.

Declining the driver's offer to assist, Oliver opened the passenger door himself and slid inside, setting his jaw and sealing his lips in a display he hoped would inform the driver that he was not in the mood for conversation.

Thankfully, the man was a professional, and he pulled the car out into traffic without a word.

The ride passed in silence, Oliver's mind still running through all the scenarios he could possibly consider as to how to get his company back. He and Felicity, with occasional help from Diggle, who was still busy moving Lyla into his apartment, had spent practically every waking moment since the phone call trying to figure out a solution, but with such a limited timeframe, it was difficult, at best. Felicity had particularly objected to the constant reading and re-reading of the company bylaws—"I'm an IT specialist, not a paralegal" was the rather-indignant phrase she used—but even with her grudging help, Oliver had found nothing that would give them any leverage over the board's decision. A vote cast was a vote cast, regardless of how insane Isabel Rochev might have been, and QC's bylaws were ironclad when it came to CEO succession.

It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable position for Oliver to find himself in; trapped. It grated on his every nerve, manifested itself in an aggravating, omnipresent noise in the back of his mind. Even taking the PR job, the logical choice according to Felicity, left the sour taste of surrender in his mouth.

Oliver was pulled from his bitter reflections when the car slowed to a stop in front of the Queen Consolidated tower. As soon as the vehicle halted, he could see the familiar crowd of reporters and cameramen suddenly lurch his direction, and he knew he didn't have much time.

With a curt 'thanks' to the driver, Oliver threw open the door and made a beeline for the lobby entrance, hoping that his brisk stride would convey that he wasn't going to be available for an interview.

Unfortunately, hope sprang eternal in the tabloid business, and so despite his speed, the mob caught up to him in a second and he was suddenly enveloped in a swirling cloud of bodies, shouted questions, and flashing lenses.

"How does it feel to lose control of your company, Mr. Queen?"

"Is it true that Mr. Latimer offered you a position in Public Relations?"

"Will you be able to work effectively with the board after this?"

Oliver had plenty of experience with reporters, knew that the best policy was just to keep moving and not show any sign of weakness. Still, today, the barbs seemed just a little sharper in the aftermath of his loss, the flashing cameras a little more aggravating. Every little annoyance seemed magnified a hundredfold.

And so when he heard a cheeky voice pipe up from behind him, asking "What would your parents have thought about this?", Oliver snapped.

Spinning around, Oliver leveled a finger at the poser of the question, recognizable by the verminous grin spread across his face.

Conscious of the crowd encircling him again and struggling to keep from ripping the reporter's face off, Oliver growled, "Do _not_ talk about my parents."

If the mob had been insistent before, that comment sent them over the edge. Oliver was practically blinded by a sudden storm of lens flare, deafened by a tidal wave of shouted questions. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, Oliver spun around, attempting to find an escape route through the mass, but at every turn was confronted only with more yells, more flashes. A microphone boom from a nearby camera crew actually buffeted him on the side of the face as he searched for an exit, but before he could grab the offending piece of equipment and smash it to the ground, a voice rang out above the din.

"Enough! Leave him be or I swear I will bury the lot of you in defamation lawsuits!"

Reluctantly, the mob of reporters shrunk back a little, allowing Oliver just enough of a gap that he could shoulder his way out of.

His savior was none other than Stephen Latimer, standing at the top of the steps. Suit jacket unbuttoned, hands on his hips, his expression was equal parts contempt and annoyance, and Oliver was sure only part of that was actually directed at the reporters.

"I do apologize for that mess," Latimer said as Oliver reached the top of the steps. "I should have known better than to let you walk alone from the car."

Oliver tensed at the thinly-veiled implication that he couldn't take care of himself, but he didn't succumb to the temptation to cave Latimer's skull in.

"No," he said as they walked towards the lobby entrance, "it was my fault. I shouldn't have let them get under my skin like that."

Latimer shrugged carelessly. "We all have our blind spots," he said blandly, making clear in his tone that by "we" he meant "Oliver".

Oliver took a deep breath as they stepped through the revolving doors into the lobby. It was going to be a long day.

Latimer was saying something as they walked towards the stage that now occupied the back right corner of the lobby, but Oliver tuned him out, focusing instead on their surroundings.

Event staff were just putting the finishing touches on the seating, rows and rows of chairs extending back to the limits of the room. All of them faced the stage, which was occupied only by a long table at which the board would sit, and to its left, in the center of the stage, a single lectern emblazoned with the Queen Consolidated logo.

_So this is where I lose my dignity,_ Oliver thought. _In the lobby of what used to be my company._

Attempting as best as he could to push that thought out of his head, Oliver looked around, but Latimer was already gone, talking with a few board members over by the stage, Marmont among them. The man shot Oliver a sideways glance, and his gloating smile was practically malevolent.

Reaching inside his suit, Oliver retrieved his copy of the speech he had written for the occasion. Obviously, he had been forced to submit it to the board for review, and the thing had been so amended and reformatted that upon its return he hardly recognized the document as his own work.

That was good. He wanted nothing to do with this spectacle. Reading his own words to crown Latimer was something he wasn't sure his pride would have allowed him to do.

Oliver set a course for backstage, behind the curtain, where he could be alone with his thoughts. Under the pretense of practicing his speech, he stayed back there for the next twenty minutes, staring at the floor while the lobby doors were opened and the flood of observers steadily poured in.

Diggle and Felicity were out there, assuredly, and Oliver's lips twitched a little as he thought of the blonde IT genius, likely tottering on those dangerously-high heels, craning her neck to get a view of the stage. He wanted nothing more than to go out and talk to them, talk to her, but he couldn't bring himself to face them at the moment. This Oliver Queen was not the one they knew, not the unstoppable vigilante nor the man they had come to call their friend. This was Oliver Queen in a state he abhorred.

Defeat.

And so, when the aide came backstage to retrieve him, saying, "It's time, Mr. Queen", Oliver simply gave a quiet nod and followed.

As soon as he joined the rest of the board onstage there was a surge of camera flares and muttered conversations, but Oliver didn't acknowledge the attention, heading straight to his seat.

Dubois was at the lectern, raising his hands to signal silence. The crowd obliged, and the Frenchman began, "Thank you all for coming here today, to witness this historic event at Queen Consolidated. Today, the board presents the candidate we have chosen to lead this company into the future, out of the chaos of the past and into a bright new world of promise. Here to introduce this man, and to oversee the calm transition of the company from a family to a public business, is former CEO and our new head of Public Relations, Mr. Oliver Queen."

Dubois stepped back from the lectern, joining in the applause that rippled through the room. Oliver tried not to roll his eyes; the act of applauding the man who had just lost his job was so sickeningly polite it irked him.

Nonetheless, he fixed his features into a smile and stood, turning to shake Latimer's hand. But as he took the proffered hand, Latimer leaned in close to Oliver's ear.

"Remember, stick to the script," he requested. "Wouldn't want them to think you'll actually be of any consequence around here anymore, now would we?"

The words were said with a honeyed charm, practically oozing through the man's bleached teeth. But in Oliver's ears, they may as well have been rusty nails for all the effect they had.

Just like that, Latimer had sat back down, smiling and waving to the crowd and leaving Oliver standing, half shocked and half enraged, but with no choice but to proceed to the lectern.

He knew that the Public Relations job had been a nicety, but hearing it confirmed from Latimer's own mouth only pushed Oliver even closer to the edge. His heart was hammering, blood pumping angrily through his veins as he stepped up to the lectern, as if he were about to take down another drug lord or some other enemy of the city.

The Arrow would never take such an insult.

But Oliver Queen set his hands on the lectern anyways.

The room fell silent again, everyone eagerly awaiting the words of the Queen heir, leaning forward in their seats. Oliver could hear the blood pounding in his ears, and felt certain that everyone else could, too.

Clearing his throat, he glanced down at his script and began.

"Good morning," he read. "It is no secret that in the past few years, the name of Queen Consolidated has, more often than not, been associated with deceit and ill intent, rather than with honesty. This was never our intention, but the conspiracy of events that put us in that position has now been ended."

The words were meaningless filler, but Oliver read them dutifully, trying to keep his eyes on the crowd as much as possible. He needed to sell to the media the idea that he was content with the new power structure, and to do that, he needed to act sincere.

"The past is behind us," Oliver continued, "and we now turn towards new horizons of endless possibilities. To lead us on that journey, the board has chosen a new leader. A man whose, integrity, capability, and ingenuity is matched by none." Oliver had always had trouble saying that line with a straight face, but as he read further, he realized he should have paid closer attention to the revisions the board had made.

` "And a man who can truly realize the vision my father had for this company."

Oliver had been reading almost on autopilot, and so the words had already left his mouth before he fully realized what he had just said. When he did, he was stopped in his tracks.

Robert Queen had been no saint. Oliver knew that, did not delude himself with a fantasized version of who his father had really been. Despite his last words of repentance, Oliver knew that his father had made mistakes that would justify placing his own name on the List.  
But he had repented.

And Stephen Latimer was not worthy to wipe the dirt from Robert Queen's shoes.

Oliver knew he was in a dangerous position; the longer he paused, the more the curious crowd leaned in, and the more the rage building in the back of his mind grew. Someone on the board coughed, not-so-subtly indicating to Oliver to get back on-script.

Oliver knew he should, knew that Felicity was probably freaking out right now, but no matter how much his rational mind told him to continue reading, to swallow his pride and make the logical choice, he simply couldn't.

There were some things in the world that defied logic, some things that ran deeper and closer to the core of what it meant to be human than mere reason. For Oliver Queen, one of those things was honor.

And as his eyes skimmed the next paragraph, surveying with disgust the lines extolling Latimer's virtues in conjunction with the memory of Robert Queen, his last bit of restraint snapped, and the lingering rage that had been building in the back of Oliver's mind for the entire day finally poured forth, flooding his mind with a new purpose.

Hearing the board shifting uncomfortably behind him, Oliver reached forward, bending the microphone a little closer to his mouth and quickly scanning the crowd for a familiar head of blonde hair while he did so.

He didn't find her. Which was probably a good thing, he realized, considering what he was about to do.

"I'm sorry," he began, but shook his head. "No, you know what, I'm not," he said unequivocally, "I can't do this. My father's memory is not a PR tool, and I will not see the Queen name buried in this company's past." He could hear the board begin to panic, someone standing up to try and rush him away from the microphone, but Oliver would not be denied. Leaning into the microphone, he stated with iron resolve, "It is my intention to file suit against Queen Consolidated for wrongful termination, and to see this company returned to the family that built it. Good day."

Oliver stepped back from the lectern, darting past the board member who had attempted to stop him—Marmont, he was unsurprised to see, bearing a look of pure hatred—and making a beeline for the elevators.

For a second, there was nothing but stunned silence.

Then the lobby exploded.

As the elevator doors slid shut in front of him, Oliver could see Dubois taking the lectern, trying futilely to perform damage control and quiet the practically-rioting crowd of reporters and observers, and he felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He had never borne any ill will towards the Frenchman, nor had he sensed any directed towards him.

But the guilt vanished as quickly as it had come. He had been placed in an impossible situation; Latimer's comment beforehand had all but given to him in writing the proof he needed that the PR job was intended as nothing more than an internal exile.

Oliver had no regrets. For the first time in weeks, he was acting, deciding his own fate instead of letting it be dictated to him.

It felt good to be back in control.

With that in mind, however, he knew he had some explaining to do, and so he grabbed his phone immediately.

"Good to see you haven't vanished in a cloud of smoke," Diggle answered after the first ring, and Oliver could tell the man was straining to be heard over the bedlam in the lobby. "I hope you've got a good explanation for whatever that was," he continued, "because Felicity is-"

"Not now, Digg," Oliver interrupted. "There's no time. You two parked in the garage, correct?"

"Yeah," Diggle confirmed, "sublevel three, row fourteen."

"Got it," Oliver said, punching in the new information on the elevator keys. "Meet me there as soon as possible."

"Roger that," Diggle said. "Though I'm not responsible for any damage Felicity might do to you."  
"Understood," Oliver replied, and ended the call.

The elevator doors split open, and Oliver stepped out into the welcomingly-deserted parking garage, his stride just shy of a run.

Felicity was undoubtedly going to be furious. In the span of a few seconds, he had taken her plan and disintegrated it. She would come around, eventually, but only if he could survive the next few minutes.

Right on cue, as he rounded one of the support pillars marking the fourteenth row and sighted Diggle's vehicle, he saw them, Diggle struggling to keep up with the blonde tornado that was bearing down on Oliver, stiletto heels striking the concrete with a rapidity that sounded for all the world like machinegun fire.

"You!" Felicity practically shrieked, jabbing a finger at him as if it were an arrow. "What is wrong with you!?"

"Not now, Felicity," Oliver entreated, his voice low. Behind him, he could hear footsteps echoing through the garage, and he had no doubts about who it was.

"Yes, now!" Felicity corrected, closing the distance between them and jabbing a brightly-painted nail in his chest. She was wearing a professional blue dress, but as her chest heaved up and down with anger and her cheeks burned scarlet, Oliver found it difficult to concentrate on her words. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Yes," Oliver said patiently, "I saved us from purgatory. Now would you please just get in the-"

"Oh no," Felicity snapped, swiping her finger in front of his face. "If you think I'm getting in that car before you give me an explanation then you are sorely mistaken."

"Please-" Oliver tried to insert, but Felicity wasn't done.

"And a real explanation, please," she ordered, jabbing him in the chest again. "Not one of those idiotic 'I have to do dumb stuff because I'm a hero' lines you usually drop on me. Because you're not going to be able to charm or arrow your way out of this one, mister, and if you expect my help-"

"You!" bellowed a new voice from behind, and Oliver couldn't help but wonder over everyone's sudden obsession with pronouns.

"Now get in the car?" Oliver pleaded, but Felicity shook her head adamantly.

"Not a chance," she declared, taking a step to stand at his side. Immediately, Diggle did the same, and so, flanked by his closest friends, Oliver turned to face his new accuser.

And a scorned Stephen Latimer was quite the accuser indeed.

"You arrogant, ignorant, narcissistic brat!" Latimer roared as he bore down on the trio, jacket billowing behind him. "This is the thanks I get, after I stuck my neck out for you to get you that job? You decide to repay me by blowing up my press conference on live television?"

"Stuck your neck out?" Oliver responded, stepping forward to meet the man's advance. "That PR job was a consolation prize and you know it. So excuse me for not wanting to play ball with the man who stole my company."

"Stole?" Latimer repeated venomously. "Don't delude yourself. I won that position fair and square, in the same interview process as you. Maybe you should take some responsibility for your own failings instead of blaming all your problems on someone else, and making my job several orders of magnitude more difficult. A job, by the way, that includes _saving _your company from-"

"Bullshit," Oliver growled, taking a step closer. Latimer was taller than him by a fair amount, but the sheer rage in Oliver's eyes forced him to take a step backwards. Felicity placed a concerned hand on Oliver's arm, but he shrugged it off, leaning in even closer. "You're not trying to save it, you're trying to absorb it."

Latimer blinked in shock, mouth opening to spout a defense, but Oliver cut him off. "That's right," he said, "I know about your connections with Stellmoor and Isabel. I know about Silverstone Holdings. I know how you've been scooping up Merlyn Global's leftovers, and I know what you intend on doing with Queen Consolidated. And I am not going to stand idly by and let you dismantle my family's legacy."

Latimer's face twisted violently for a moment in a spasm of anger, but he quickly smoothed it over.

"Well, congratulations," he hissed. "You've uncovered our little scheme." His eyes darted over Oliver's shoulder. "Or should I say, _she _discovered it. Still, I suppose it's nice to know that her ridiculous promotion to executive assistant was not entirely due to her more _base _talents-"

Oliver drove his fist into Latimer's gut, expelling all the air from his lungs and doubling him over like a piece of cardboard. Oliver was prepared to deliver another strike, seeing nothing but red, but Diggle stepped in and grabbed his arm, wrestling him back to sanity.  
"If you ever utter a word against her again, I will end you," Oliver swore, his voice dangerously close to that of the Arrow.

"You.." Latimer wheezed, "…you maniac!" He tried to straighten up, staggering to his side. "You think you can assault me and get away with it? I will bury you in court, do you hear me? Bury you!"

"On what evidence?" Felicity queried innocently, and Oliver looked down to see her ever-present tablet in hand, its screen now displaying the security camera footage from the parking garage. A few quick swipes of her hand followed, and she looked back up to meet Latimer's eyes. "Oh dear," she said. "It looks like all camera footage from the past few minutes has been erased." She sighed, shaking her head. "What a pity."

Latimer's face contorted into an expression so hateful Oliver felt sure his eyes would burst into flames.  
"Bitch," he hissed.

Oliver drew back his arm in preparation for another blow, but this time it was Felicity who caught his wrist. Surprised, he let his arm fall, and Felicity gave a curious frown.

"You know," she mused, "People keep calling me that. Of course, those people are usually assholes, so I guess that means I'm doing something right." She shrugged, tossing her ponytail back with a look of complete indifference.

Latimer's expression turned even darker, if that was possible. "You'll regret this," he vowed to Felicity, before turning his gaze to the rest of the group. "You will all rue the day you thought you could cross me."

"Shut up before I have to hit you again," Oliver said disinterestedly, and turned away towards the car. Diggle and Felicity fell in immediately, and Oliver made sure to open the passenger door for the blonde woman while maintaining unflinching eye contact with Latimer.

"This isn't over," Latimer sneered. "Do you hear me? I'm not just going to crush your laughable little lawsuit, I'm going to destroy your reputation so completely, neither you nor your friends will be able to live within a hundred miles of this city."

Oliver didn't flinch. "Good luck," he grunted, and climbed into the back seat, slamming the door pointedly behind him.

Even as Diggle pulled out of the parking spot, Oliver could hear Latimer, still yelling. "This isn't over!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Oliver muttered in agreement.

There were a few moments of silence as Diggle found the exit ramp, everyone mentally unpacking what had just happened, and then Oliver spoke.

"I'm sorry for hitting him, Felicity," he mumbled.

"Don't be," Felicity replied almost instantly. "You were just defending me."

"I lost control-" Oliver began, but Felicity turned around to face him.

"Some people deserve to be humbled, occasionally," she assured him, one corner of her mouth twitching upwards. "Besides, like I said, he was an asshole."

"Grade A," Diggle confirmed as he maneuvered the car up the twisting ramp.

"However," Felicity continued, "I would still like to know when the plan changed from giving a speech and subtly infiltrating Queen Consolidated to deciding _to_ _sue your own company_."

Oliver sighed, realizing that he should have known Felicity wasn't going to let him get away scot-free.

"About the same time Latimer assured me that I would be doing nothing but rotting in Public Relations for the rest of eternity," he stated. "Just as I suspected. The bastard had the gall to approach me right before I went onstage and assure me that I was nothing more than a political prop."

There was another pause, and then Felicity spoke.

"Well," she said. "You were right. He's not just an asshole, he's a stone-cold Slytherin."

Oliver frowned. "What?"

Felicity gave him an exasperated look. "Oh, come on. You weren't gone that long. Even you have to know Harry Potter."

Oliver shook his head slowly. "I didn't read much back then."

Felicity groaned. "I don't believe it," she said, and turned to face forward again, muttering something to herself about "uncultured savages".

Not quite sure how to follow that, Oliver returned to the subject of Latimer. "In any case, I hope he's having second thoughts now."  
"He wouldn't be the only one," Diggle observed. "Oliver, you know I'll have your back through anything, but none of us in this car are lawyers."

Oliver blew out a breath. "No. No we're not." He reached into his pocket. "But I know someone who is."

000

"Ah, Laurel, I was just looking for you. Did you have the paralegals do the diligence on the Bainbridge briefs yet?"

Laurel Lance collected the last sheet of paper as it was expelled from the overworked printer at the Starling City District Attorney's office and added it to the not-insignificant stack already in her arms.

"You mean these?" Laurel asked, turning to face her questioner. "I ended up doing them myself. It's not that I don't trust the paralegals with handling one of the biggest cases to come through our office in the past month, but…" she shrugged, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "…it's just that I don't trust the paralegals with handling one of the biggest cases to come through our office in the past month."

Harvey Mitchell, Starling City's new District Attorney, raised an eyebrow. "You proofed all those yourself?"

Laurel shrugged again. "Well, I certainly didn't get eight hours of sleep last night, if that's what you're asking."

Harvey nodded. "Ah. Well, good work, then," he said. "I think you've earned the rest of the day off."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Mitchell, but-"

Harvey flashed one of his winning smiles. "Please, call me Harvey."

Laurel acquiesced with a tired smile of her own. "Thank you, Harvey, but I still have plenty of work to do here-"

"Laurel," Harvey interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It's three-thirty on a Thursday afternoon. You've been in this office for the past eight-"

"Ten," Laurel corrected.

Harvey gave an exasperated smile, but accepted the revised figure. "The past _ten_ hours. You deserve a break."

"No, it's fine," Laurel insisted, turning her gaze back to the armful of briefs she carried. "I just need to do some final revisions on the opening statements-"

"Laurel," Harvey interjected one final time, his tone equally jovial and serious. "I can handle the openers. You need sleep." He reached for the briefs.

"But-" Laurel began.

"No buts," Harvey replied immediately, placing both hands on the stack of papers and prying them gently from Laurel's reluctant grasp. He looked her in the eyes. "Go home. Sleep."

Laurel placed her hands on her hips. "I don't need to be babied, Harvey. I've pulled all-nighters before and worked the next day."

"But you've never gone to court the next day, have you?" Harvey asked.

Laurel frowned. "I don't have any trial dates tomorrow."

"You do now," Harvey said, thumbing through the first through pages of the briefs. "I'm reassigning you as my second chair."

Laurel blinked. "You want me to be your co-counsel?"

"Well, I think it's safe to say that you know more about this case than anyone else in this office right now," Harvey said with a chuckle as he dog-eared a couple pages for later reference. "And certainly more than my original partner, who by my observation has spent the day consuming a frightening amount of donuts in the course of his eternal quest to post the office's highest score in solitaire."

Laurel couldn't help but smile. "Ross has always been a bit carefree-"

"He's a worthless lay about who I would fire immediately if his daddy wasn't a city councilman. And about to become mayor, too, if the polls are any indication." Harvey paused, mocking a glance around. "I'm sorry, did I say that out loud?"

Laurel's smile broadened. "Your secret is safe with me," she promised.

"Good," Harvey said, pinning the stack of briefs to his side with his arm as he matched her smile. "But I hope you see why I need you rested for tomorrow, now. So go. Get some sleep. And consider it an order."

"Aye aye, captain," Laurel mocked as Harvey headed for the door.

"Ah, you see, that'd be less funny if I didn't own a yacht," Harvey threw over his shoulder, and Laurel shook her head, smiling exasperatedly.

"Oh, and Laurel?"

Laurel looked up to see Harvey leaning against the doorframe. "There's no need for you to be working this hard. People might start to think you're gunning for my job, and then I'd have to start working, too." He threw her a parting wink, and then stepped into the hallway.

Laurel watched him go, leaning back against the printer. Harvey Mitchell, Starling City's new District Attorney and darling of all the evening talk shows. Tall, blonde, and handsome, he had already captured the hearts of most of the single (and some of the attached) females in the DA's office with his coiffed hair, easy smile, and perfectly-tailored suits.

But there was more to him than simple roguish good looks. A legal wunderkind, he had graduated second in his class at Harvard Law—second, according to him, because he couldn't be bothered to study for his final exams—and almost immediately been offered the job of District Attorney in Central City. He had spent several years there, where he quickly established a record of success, so much so that people were actually blaming him for a local economic downturn, as many large businesses had chosen to vacate the city rather than remain within his jurisdiction when he began his one-man prosecutorial quest against the Central City mob.

That quest had ended with an attempt on his life, which for a prosecuting attorney, was almost a badge of honor. He had survived, but during the weeks he spent in the hospital, the more nefariously-connected among Central City's government had seized the opportunity to install a new, less zealous District Attorney. So when word went out that Starling City was in need of a new DA, Harvey was the first in line, and the beleaguered city government was more than happy to land such a renowned prosecutor.

That had been all that Laurel's research on him had dug up. But after his arrival in the DA position, Harvey had proven that the hype wasn't all just hype. In the past few weeks the DA's office had taken on more cases than Laurel had ever seen before, especially in the wake of such a catastrophic incident. And for all he lectured Laurel about the need for sleep, she had personally seen that he always kept an extra suit in his office in case he ended up staying the night.

And he was right about one thing, at least: Laurel was tired. More tired than she'd dared to admit, not wanting to seem weak in front of her boss.

The truth was, she had never left that office the night before, had found several mistakes within the Bainbridge files that would have exploded at trial with all the good effects of a landmine. She could have simply catalogued her findings and dropped them off with the paralegals to be corrected, but the Bainbridge case, involving a significant investment bank whose owner had been one of the largest donors to Sebastian Blood's mayoral campaign, was one of the most important cases to come through the DA's office since the attack.

So she had taken responsibility.

And now, she realized as she found herself unable to stop a gargantuan yawn, she was paying the price.

Fighting to keep her eyelids open, Laurel decided that perhaps some rest might indeed be in order. However, not desiring to fall asleep in the car on her way home, she decided to stop by the break room and imbibe a cup or two of the black, caffeinated sludge that passed for coffee in the DA's office.

As she stepped out into the hallway, however, her phone rang. Her personal phone. Retrieving it, she blinked in surprise as she saw Oliver's name appearing on the screen.

"Hey, Ollie," she said. "I'm sorry, I can't really talk right now. I really need to get home, so if you call me back in twenty minutes-"

"Sorry, Laurel," Oliver interrupted, his voice urgent, "but I need your help now."

Laurel stopped in her tracks. She knew that tone, had heard it before far too many times. "Ollie, what did you do?"

There was a pause. "It's…complicated. Are you near a TV?"

"In a moment," Laurel relied, heading towards the break room, a ball of apprehension beginning to knot itself in her gut. "I swear, Ollie, if you-"

Laurel froze the instant she stepped into the break room. A small crowd of people were already clustered in front of the television, but as it was mounted up on the wall, Laurel could make out Oliver's figure at a lectern and read the headline scrolling across the bottom clear enough.

_Queen announces intent to sue Queen Consolidated for wrongful termination._

"Please tell me this is a joke," Laurel said flatly.

"Do I sound like I'm joking?" Oliver asked simply.

Laurel groaned and stepped back out of the break room, leaning against the wall. "Oliver, I don't know what the hell you were thinking, but I can't help you with this. I'm a prosecuting attorney with the DA's office, not a corporate lawyer. And you're going to need a damn good one for this lunacy. I'd suggest Paulsen-Zane; they're one of the largest firms in the city, and you're a high-profile enough client that they might be willing to take you on as a charity case, even if you're broke."

"Thanks for the reminder," Oliver sighed. "But I don't want them; I want you."

Laurel pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oliver, I'm flattered, but I'm not a corporate lawyer."

"I don't need you in court," Oliver said. "I just want your advice. Can I swing by your office?"

"I can't consult on other cases within office hours or premises," Laurel replied. "You'll have to meet me at my apartment. I'll take the rest of the day off."

"Thank you, Laurel," Oliver said, and Laurel could sense that he actually meant it.

"Don't thank me yet," Laurel warned. "This is a hell of a mess you've gotten yourself into."

"If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard those words, I'd almost be a billionaire again," Oliver deadpanned in response.

Laurel shook her head and ended the call. "Dumbass."

000

Sara Lance was tired.

No, that wasn't the right word, she realized. Tired was the state referring to morning grogginess, or evening lethargy. Tired was something you felt after you pulled a late night at the office, or completed a mildly-tiring exercise.

Sara Lance was exhausted.

Every muscle in her body was sore, aching for rest. Her eyelids felt like slabs of concrete, her memory coming in bursts that faded in and out of consciousness, for sleep was ever denied to her.

She should be thankful that all she was feeling was exhausted, she thought, trying to find some positive in the situation. So far, Malcolm had refrained from physical torture, and that was a heartening, if puzzling, fact. However, the past few days she had spent in the cell were anything but comfortable.

Sara knew how to take a beating. Torture, she could have handled with ease. And Malcolm knew that. So he had taken a different route.

Sleep deprivation had been his weapon of choice for the past few days, constantly bathing the room in intermittent bursts of harsh, unfiltered light and playing incredibly-loud static over an archaic radio in the far corner of the cell. To maximize their discomfort, he had untied Sara and Nyssa from the chairs they had originally been seated in and imprisoned them so that their arms were suspended by ropes attached to the ceiling, just high enough that their toes could barely touch the ground, forcing them to constantly be adjusting their balance. They were fed once every other day, a thin slop of oats and water that marked their only chance to be momentarily unbound and allowed to rub some circulation back into their aching limbs while they ate.

It was all intended to exhaust them, physically and mentally, to wear down their sanity until finally they broke.

So far, they had not broken, although Sara was beginning to have glorious hallucinations about smashing that infernal radio into pieces.

Right on cue with her fantasy, the radio suddenly fell silent.

Knowing what that heralded, Sara summoned all that remained of her meager strength and picked up her head, trying her best to put on a proud front. To her right, Nyssa was still drifting in and out of a fevered daydream, but she too jolted to wakefulness at the sudden silence.

"No matter what happens," Sara vowed.

"Stick together," Nyssa finished.

Sara threw a weary, but grateful smile at the daughter of Ra's al Ghul, who returned it with determination.

Then the door to the cell opened, and Malcolm Merlyn stepped in.

He was twirling something in his fingers, Sara noticed, and as he stepped into the light, it became clear that it was an arrow, the shaft as black as midnight. In her sleep-deprived state, Sara couldn't help but be slightly hypnotized by the movement, occasional flashes of light glinting off the serrated broadhead as Malcolm paced.

After crossing back and forth across the cell a few times, he finally stopped in the middle. "I do apologize for my absence," he began, his voice calm, but with an undercurrent of agitation that Sara had never detected before.

"Go to hell," Sara growled.

Malcolm's eyes flashed dangerously. "Been there already. Didn't find it to my liking, so I came back." He took a step forward. "You, on the other hand…you I could send there with a simple flick of my wrist." The black arrow slid into his palm with lighting speed, and Sara wisely decided to clamp her mouth shut.

Malcolm held her gaze for a long moment. "I thought as much," he said, disgust practically dripping from his voice, before resuming his pacing. "I know how much you two have been enjoying my hospitality, and believe me, there would be nothing I would enjoy more than seeing you rot down here for another week. However, I was just recently been informed that the shadow princess's dear father is growing worried that you two have not yet arrived in Nanda Parbat." He paused, this time in front of Nyssa. "And so, my hand has been forced."

He looked down at the arrow in his palm. "Now, I chose not to interrogate you two in the more…traditional…ways because we are, after all, initiated, the three of us. Members of the League of Shadows."

"You betrayed the League!" Nyssa snapped, her eyes burning with hatred. "Turned your back on us all. We have nothing in common with you."

Malcolm shook his head. "Wrong again, princess. Like you, I have also endured pain. And like you, I knew it would gain me nothing to torture you in the flesh, because as members of the League, you would willingly sacrifice your lives for each other."

Sara exchanged an uneasy glance with Nyssa, wondering where this was leading.

Malcolm was quick to illuminate. "You can imagine my surprise, then, when I found out that you two had once shared a bond far greater than that of simple League-sisters."

Sara froze, and could hear Nyssa's gasp as she, too, realized what Malcolm meant.

"I don't know what you're talking about-" Sara began, hoping against hope to distract the mad archer, but Malcolm would not be swayed.

"Now, now, Sara, don't be ashamed," Malcolm purred, turning to face her again. "There is nothing wrong with your choice of partner. It's certainly not my place to judge. But you can forgive me if I require some…proof."

Before Sara could even begin to figure out what Malcolm meant by that, the archer's arm blurred into motion.

Time seemed to slow, everything in Sara's vision fading out save for the arrowhead, which was streaking unerringly towards Nyssa's neck as the proud assassin's eyes flew open in alarm.

Before Sara could even think, an agonized, wretched shriek was ripped from her throat, her desperate "no!" reverberating off every corner of the cramped cell.

And Malcolm's arm stopped, the arrowhead mere millimeters from Nyssa's bulging jugular vein.

He smiled. "So it is true."

Sara slumped, only the ropes keeping her from collapsing to the floor. She had just given away their secret, and the most powerful tool Malcolm could use against them.

Nyssa was quick to try and salvage the situation. "Obviously you don't know Sara. She would react that way for any friend in danger. It's her nature."

Malcolm smirked. "And I suppose you would be the expert on her nature, would you not?"

Nyssa snarled. "You know nothing about us-"

"Silence, princess!" Malcolm roared, the arrow in his hand again. "Do not think me deaf and blind. Whatever you may say, I can tell that you care for her, and her for you."

He looked down at the arrow again. "And if there is one trait I know Ra's al Ghul would have passed to his daughter, it would be his weakness for loved ones."

In a flash, the arrow was now under Sara's chin, the cold metal pricking her skin and sending a thin trickle of scarlet down her neck. Without thinking, Nyssa cried out, and Malcolm's smile tightened.

"So, now that we understand each other, let's begin. How did you stop Slade Wilson?"

"Don't answer him, Nyssa!" Sara yelled, standing on her tiptoes as she to lift her head up away from the deadly arrowhead. "Don't give him the satisfaction!"

"Quiet!" Malcolm roared, grabbing Sara's head with his free hand and forcing it back down towards the arrow. "I'm interrogating here."

He turned his gaze back to Nyssa. "I'll repeat the question one more time, and you'll answer me, or else your dearest here gets a stylish new piercing. So: how did you stop Slade Wilson?"

Nyssa's face was an agony of indecision, glancing back and forth between the pricking arrowhead and Sara's desperate eyes. Sara tried to shake her head, to signify Nyssa should stay silent, but Malcolm merely pressed the arrowhead harder, and the trickle of blood increased.

"Three," Malcolm warned, tightening his grip on the arrow.

Nyssa's lips twitched as her eyes locked with Sara.

"Two," Malcolm continued, his voice deepening to a snarl.

_Don't do it_, Sara pleaded in her mind, trying to convey that message with only the force of her gaze.

Malcolm drew back the arrow and prepared to plunge it into Sara's neck.

Sara closed her eyes.

"One."

The arrowhead whistled as it parted the air, and Sara awaited the pain.

It never came.

Instead, she heard Nyssa's desperate and defeated voice yell, "There was a cure!"

Sara closed her eyes tight for a moment, hoping that Nyssa's cry had come too late. But when no cold metal pierced her neck, she looked up to see Nyssa slumping in shame, a single tear running down her cheek.

"What?" Malcolm said, the arrow falling to his side.

"There was a cure," Nyssa repeated, her voice half-sob and half-rage. "The Arrow developed some sort of cure, and he gave it to us."

Sara thought about yelling again, about trying to distract Malcolm until Nyssa could come to her senses, but she knew it would do no good. For all her faults, Nyssa would never allow any harm to come to Sara, and nothing Sara said could change that.

"The Arrow?" Malcolm snorted. "So that's what the brat is calling himself these days. I should have known."

"Oliver is twice the man you'll ever be," Sara spat, and without hesitation Malcolm backhanded her across the face. As Sara gasped in pain, he turned back to Nyssa and spoke again. "And what of Isabel Rochev?"

This time, Nyssa looked up and met his gaze, a grim smile spreading across her face. "I killed her."

"What?" Malcolm demanded.

"I snapped her neck," Nyssa replied. "And I must say it was a pleasure."

Malcolm sighed. "Regrettable, but predictable. I knew there wasn't enough time to train her up to acceptable skill, but Slade insisted that all his followers be dosed with the mirakuru."

"Wait," Sara gasped, "_you _were behind all that? Behind Slade?"

Malcolm laughed. "Of course I was!" He shook his head, chuckling. "My dear Sara, do you honestly believe that a partially-insane man whose only resumé item was an ill-fated stint in the Australian Special Forces could have amassed the wealth and influence he did in such a short time after washing ashore in mainland China?" Malcolm smirked. "He was half-drowned when I found him, crawling up the beach and muttering nonsense about some island. But I heard him say the name 'Oliver', and so I took him in, nursed him back to health."

Malcolm shook his head. "It soon became clear that Slade was bent only on revenge. A goal that I shared after Oliver left me for dead on that rooftop. And so I sent him back to Starling City with the task of destroying everything Oliver loved."

Sara's jaw was hanging slack, unable to believe that all the events of the past year had essentially been scripted by Malcolm Merlyn's hand.

But Malcolm was not yet finished. He sighed. "Slade, in his madness, soon became uncontrollable, bent on not only killing Oliver's family, but on destroying the whole city and killing Oliver himself." Malcolm's expression darkened. "And Oliver's life is mine alone to take."

Sara growled. "He beat you before," she said defiantly, "he'll do it again."

Malcolm stiffened, and Sara, knowing it was foolish to provoke him any further but unable to resist the chance to needle his pride even further, added, "He's twice the archer you'll ever be."

Malcolm didn't move, his expression remaining blank, even as a single vein throbbed on the side of his neck.

A long moment passed, and then Malcolm slowly turned to face her. "You should thank Nyssa for telling me the truth," he said to her, his voice deathly quiet. "Because of her good faith, I'm not going to kill you for that remark." He paused. "At least, this shouldn't kill you."

Before Sara could react, her right shoulder suddenly exploded into searing agony as Malcolm drove the arrow into her flesh, the razor-sharp metal slicing through layers of skin and muscle to imbed itself in her shoulder as a fountain of blood erupted from the wound.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Malcolm hissed, and spun around, storming out of the cell and slamming the door behind him

As Nyssa screamed in fury, Sara simply hung there, partially in shock as waves of pain radiated out from her shoulder.

"Sara!" Nyssa cried. "Sara, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Sara said finally. "I'm fine." She tried to shrug her shoulders and winced. "Hurts like a bitch, but I'm fine."

Nyssa's shoulders sagged in relief. "Sara, I am so sorry. I broke. I was weak. I just couldn't stand to see you hurt-"

"Hey, hey," Sara interrupted, looking over at the dark-haired assassin and trying to impart as much tenderness as she could in her gaze. "You have nothing to apologize for."

Nyssa smiled. "Always the gracious one, _Ta-er al-Asfar_."

Sara snorted. " What good is a canary with an injured wing?"

Nyssa craned her head, trying to get a better look at the wound in the now-dim lighting. "It may not be irreparable," she offered. "Malcolm said it would not be fatal, and the arrow is not barbed, indicating he likely intends to remove it."  
"Yeah," Sara said. "The question is just whether or not I bleed out before that happens." She paused. "Wait a minute."

"What?" Nyssa asked.

"If the arrow isn't barbed, that means Malcolm can pull it out," Sara said.

"Yes," Nyssa agreed. "And?"

Sara met her questioning gaze. "Which means I can pull it out, too."

Nyssa frowned. "Your hands are bound."

Sara turned her head.

Nyssa's eyes widened in alarm. "Sara, no! You could widen the entry wound."

"It's our only chance," Sara grunted. "And it's my life."

Before Nyssa could protest further, Sara leaned her head down, opened her mouth, and bit down on the shaft of the arrow. And, closing her eyes, she twisted her neck, pulling out and away.

The arrow slid back out through the hole it had created, sending rivers of fiery pain coursing through Sara's shoulder. The flow of blood seemed to double, splashing onto the cold stones.

But the arrow came out.

Gasping in pain, Sara opened her mouth and let the bloody projectile clatter to the floor, taking a moment to catch her breath and steel her nerves. Then she wrapped the toes of her right foot around the arrow's shaft, twisted her hands to grab the rope, and threw her momentum backwards, flipping upside down.

The pain in her injured shoulder immediately morphed into pure agony as the stress of holding onto the rope was placed upon it, but Sara gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to acknowledge the pain. Now, suspended upside down from the ceiling, she carefully manipulated the arrow with her foot, inching her toes up the shaft until her big toe was just shy of the arrowhead for maximum control.

"Sara, what are you doing?" Nyssa pleaded to know. "You're going to cripple your shoulder."

"We're both dead if we don't get out of here," Sara responded grimly. Then, she fixed her gaze on the rope just above where it imprisoned her wrists and swung her foot towards it.

The arrowhead struck its mark, slicing a few strands off the edge of the rope as Sara was sent sailing in the direction of her kick. Waiting as her momentum bled off and the swinging motion died down again, Sara aimed another kick.

This time, the arrow fixed itself solidly in the center of the rope. With what little leverage she had in the impossible position she was currently in, Sara began to awkwardly saw back and forth with her foot, thanking Malcolm for keeping his arrows sharp as strands of the rope began to give way to the razor arrowhead.

It was a slow, grueling process, made even more grueling by the pain in her shoulder that seemed to grow by the second. But fortunately, Sara only had to cut through about half the rope before the laws of physics took over.

As Sara severed one last strand, the rope abruptly gave way, its remaining strands snapping under the weight of Sara's body. She crashed to the ground, the unforgiving stone floor driving the wind out of her lungs.

She rolled over, checking to make sure there were no broken bones. Finding none, she immediately set to work.

Compared with cutting free from a rope while upside down and suspended in the air, holding the arrow between her feet and rubbing her wrist bindings against its head was child's play. Within a few frenzied minutes, the bindings too parted, and Sara stood, rubbing her chafed wrists as the feeling slowly returned to her extremities, reveling in her newfound freedom.

Nyssa, who had been watching silently the entire time, shook her head slowly. "You're insane," she said in amazement.

Sara couldn't help but give a small half-smile. "And you're coming with me. Come on, let's get you out of those bindings."

**A/N: Congratulations on making it to the end haha. Anyways, I've been meaning to ask: what do you guys think of the chapter length so far? I write long chapters by habit, but I was wondering, since this one turned out to be even longer than I expected (and I even cut some stuff before posting it) if they're harder for you guys to focus on. If you have any strong feelings one way or the other about length, let me know.  
Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Once again, thanks for all the reviews, guys. I really can't emphasize enough how much they help. Even if you disagree with something, like several of you did with the whole Malcolm/Slade deal, mention it in a review. They really help me know you guys as an audience.  
Also, A+ to everyone who caught the blatant 'Suits' references in the last chapter. Sadly, I don't own that, either.**

Chapter Five

"Initiates, begin!"

Thea Merlyn was moving before the instructor even finished the command, dropping into a guarded stance, muscles coiled and ready to spring. Across the sparring circle, her opponent, a swarthy, older initiate she knew only as Ashem, did the same, stepping to the side. Thea mirrored him, trying to preserve the most distance possible between them as they circled each other.

Throughout the vast sparring hall, Thea could hear the grunts and cries of the other initiates as they contested each other in this tenth bout of the morning. They had not yet been allowed to eat, yet another one of the League's brutal training regimens being frequent fasts, and so her stomach was gnawing with hunger as she continued to move, her limbs weak and faint after nine brutal bouts of sparring. Before Malcolm had left, he had requested of the League that Thea be placed on an accelerated training regimen, and so in addition to making her already-brutal exercises a living hell, she was forced to spar against initiates older and more experienced than herself.

The experience had so far been unforgiving. Ashem had bested her with almost contemptuous ease in their first few matches, the basic self-defense training Malcolm had been able to pass to Thea during their journey from Starling City to Nanda Parbat barely fazing the Persian initiate who was almost a full year her senior. Thrown into the lion's den, Thea had been learning quickly, but even so, the last nine bouts of this morning's session had ended with her crumpled on the floor.

Thea narrowed her eyes at the man across the circle, his expression completely unreadable. _Not this time_, she swore. _Not again._

From the circle to their right, there was a cry as one of her fellow initiates was forced into submission by his opponent, but she made a conscious effort to disregard the extraneous sounds, focusing only the man across the circle.

And just in time. Ashem made his move, darting forward. Thea barely had enough time to throw up her arms and deflect the first blow before she realized that it was a feint.

As her right arm swept his aside, his left delivered a pinpoint blow to her ribs, sending a flare of pain up her torso. Gasping, Thea staggered to the side, her vision blurring as tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.

It was not a finishing blow in and of itself, but after nine such matches, Thea's body was nothing but a menagerie of bruises and pain. Struggling for air, Thea stumbled away, trying desperately to retain some semblance of a defensive posture as Ashem stalked relentlessly after her.

No doubt, her instructors were watching, shaking their heads in disgust at her cowardliness. Thea's cheeks burned in embarrassment at her failure, that she could scarcely seem to land a single blow on the older initiate.

_Weak_, taunted the voice in her mind. _After everything, you still are, and always will be, weak._

And then she saw it.

For all of Ashem's apparent lack of emotions, the past nine matches had given him a confidence borne out of experience. Combat taught lessons in body language better than any other form, and after weeks of sparring against him, Thea could tell that Ashem was confident, arrogant, almost, as he approached. She could see it in the pitying look in his eyes, in the subtle way his arms were positioned, too far out from the body to protect against a quick attack, seeing no reason to defend against the helpless, cowering young woman in front of him.

Thea's face twisted, a new rage boiling up from within. In that moment, she no longer cared about pain or failure, no longer feared the consequences. There was only will, and action.

_No_, she swore. _Not like this. Not again._

And so as Ashem stepped near, towering over her, Thea acted.

Throwing herself into a roll, Thea ducked under the man's grasping hand, reaching up to grab his arm at the joint and using her momentum from the roll to twist the arm behind his back as she threw her other arm around his neck and tightened.

And for the first time, Thea heard the older initiate cry out in pain.

Pressing her advantage, Thea applied more pressure with her arm, trying to cut off the man's air supply before he could bring his superior strength to bear. Gasping with effort, her eyes blinded with rage, Thea felt a visceral joy run through her veins as his struggles became weaker and weaker.

But then her mistake was made clear. Immobilized from the waist up, Ashem nevertheless had no problem using his legs.

His back-kick caught her on the inside of her thigh, her leg buckling away from the blow. Thea collapsed backwards, her arm slipping from around his neck, and before she could move Ashem was on top of her, hands encircling her wrists as he pinned her to the floor.

"Yield," he growled angrily.

On any other day, Thea would have submitted without question. But the rage that still coursed through her demanded satisfaction. Her limbs were immobilized, but Ashem, in his shock and anger, had once again forgotten his discipline, and brought his face to within inches of hers.

So Thea bucked her head forward, her forehead smashing into his jaw.

Ashem's head snapped back, and even as pain blossomed in her forehead, Thea felt his grip loosen.

Wrenching one of her legs free, Thea delivered a knee directly to the man's groin.

Ashem howled, rolling off of her in a spasm of agony. Without mercy, Thea pounced, diving on top of the writhing man. Pinning her knees around his waist, her elbow found his throat, pressing him back against the floor.

"You first," she replied.

Before Ashem could contemplate a response, however, they were interrupted by the sound of clapping.

Thea blinked in confusion, realizing that she had forgotten there was a world outside the small sparring circle, and other inhabitants besides her opponent. Looking up, she was shocked to once again find none other than Ra's al Ghul standing beside the circle.

"I do believe he's had enough," Ra's said with a smile, indicating the struggling Ashem. "Wouldn't you agree?"

At his words, Thea felt the driving anger from only seconds before suddenly draining out of her body, leaving her limbs weak and trembling once more. Nodding wordlessly, she stood up, allowing Ashem to find his feet.

"Ashem," Ra's said, folding his arms. "What is the first rule of combat?"

Ashem swallowed. "Never underestimate your opponent."

Ra's held the man's gaze for a long second, then nodded. "Correct. Go, and eat."

Ashem bowed again before beating a hasty retreat.

"That was an impressive display," Ra's said after Ashem had left, turning to face Thea. "What took you so long?"

Thea blinked. "What?"

Ra's' expression remained inscrutable. "You fought ten bouts this morning, Thea. Against the same opponent you have been fighting for weeks. Why has it taken you this long to best him?"

Thea frowned, unsure of how to respond. "He's had more training than me-" she began, and Ra's shook his head.

"Training?" he scoffed. "Training is only a part of what makes a warrior. In the time between your ninth and tenth matches, had you suddenly trained enough to be able to beat Ashem?"

"No," Thea said cautiously, aware that she was being led but unsure of how else to answer.

"Then what?" Ra's pressed. "What was it that helped you to do what you always could?"

Thea was utterly confused until she realized what Ra's was referring to, the sudden rage and focus that had come over her after so many humiliating defeats.

"I was sick of losing," she said quietly. "I didn't care what the consequences would be, I just wanted to win."

Ra's nodded approvingly. "And so you did." He indicated the sparring circle. "Training is vital, yes, but training is only the means by which the fight is won. Blows not backed by belief are weak and easily defended; the man who knows not what he is fighting for is the first to falter. Always, the true exigency, the belief, must come from within."

"Will," Thea supplied.

Ra's inclined his head. "The will to act."

A pause stretched between them as Thea considered his words. What, then, was she fighting for? Purely to earn her father's respect, or to realize some dream of revenge against those who had used and manipulated her?

_No_, she thought. _I fight for myself, and myself alone. To right my wrongs, to escape Thea Queen, I must become someone else. I must become…something else._

She looked up at Ra's. "I am ready to act."

Ra's smiled. "Come," he said. "To truly begin your journey, there is yet one more thing we must do."

Without question, Thea followed Ra's as the master assassin departed the sparring room, entering once more into the labyrinthine passages of Nanda Parbat. Unlike the last time she was alone with the League's master, however, Ra's was not heading up. Rather, they appeared to be proceeding deeper and deeper into the heart of the monastery, until finally they came to the end of a long hallway where stood a single, unassuming wooden door.

Ra's opened it, and Thea followed him inside.

The room was small, a softly-lit chamber seemingly designed for meditation or reflection. A small fire burned in the corner, casting jumping shadows against the latticed wall that divided the main chamber from a small antechamber in the back. Ra's approached the fire, grabbing a kettle from where it hung on the wall and filling it with water from a nearby basin before hanging it above the fire.

"Stay," Ra's instructed, and Thea obediently remained standing whilst he vanished behind the latticework.

A moment later, he reemerged, holding in one hand what appeared to be a mortar and pestle.

And in the other, a familiar pale-blue blossom.

"The flower from the eastern slopes," Thea breathed.

Ra's nodded. "Your own."

Thea watched, fascinated, as he dropped the blossom into the mortar and began to mash the petals, releasing a fine black powder from the heart of the flower. As he worked, Ra's spoke.

"In the course of your training thusfar, your strength and skills have been tested. But before you can continue, you must travel inward, and face your greatest enemy."

He paused for a moment to look Thea in the eye. "Yourself. And your own fears."

The pestle continued moving, grinding more of the flower down into the stygian powder.

"And make no mistake, Thea," Ra's said, "all men have fears. Fear is the oldest of all mankind's enemies, and by far the most relentless. It haunts all of us in some form or another, at some time in our lives. Regardless of how brave or strong you think you are, one day that fear will find you. And it will consume you."

He stopped, the pestle hanging in the air. "Which is why before your training can continue, you must confront it."

Turning away, he walked towards the kettle, which was now whistling softly. "Become fear, and you can inspire it in others. Embrace the darkness, and you can become one with its shelter." He poured the steaming water into the bowl.

"Conquer yourself, and the world will kneel before you."

Ra's turned back, holding the steaming bowl out in front of him.

"Breathe, Thea," he said, placing it into her hands. "Breathe."

Thea hesitated, unsure of the nature of the potion Ra's had just concocted, which was already filling the room with a pungent scent and making her eyes water. But the master of the League of Shadows would not be denied.

"Breathe in your fears," he whispered. "Breathe deep, and find yourself."

Still somewhat uncertain, Thea met his eyes, and Ra's gave a simple nod.

And so, Thea lifted the bowl up to her nose and inhaled, drawing up a tingling scent that seemed at once both acrid and sweet.

Blinking to clear her eyes, Thea watched in confusion as her surroundings seemed to shimmer and distort, lines blurring and objects shifting. Her heart pounded, shapes and silhouettes flickering at the edge of her vision, slowly manifesting into nameless horrors.

"Now tell me, Thea," Ra's said, his voice scraping against the edges of her mind. "What do you fear?"

000

"Well, are you going to knock, or just stand there like some creepy stalker?"

Oliver snorted, but raised his hand to tap three times on the door to the apartment in front of them. "What would I without your words of wisdom, Felicity?" he asked.

Felicity shrugged. "Probably end up with a restraining order."

"Like that would ever stop him," Diggle muttered to himself, and Felicity chuckled. Pretending he couldn't hear them, Oliver kept his attention on the door.

A moment later, it swung open.

"Oliver," said Laurel Lance, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. "Not taking kindly to unemployment, I see."

Oliver shrugged. "I never did read much Dickens."

Laurel smiled and shook her head. "Come on in," she invited, opening the door wide. "Let's see if there's any way we can transform this into a manageable disaster."

Oliver nodded his thanks, stepping over the threshold. "I'm sorry to do this to you, Laurel," he apologized, "but I didn't have anywhere else to turn."

"Well," Laurel said, escorting them into her apartment, "I may not be working at CNRI anymore, but I suppose I can still take some time to do pro bono work."

She showed them into the small dining room, and Oliver nodded approvingly as he saw that the table was covered in papers and books. Laurel truly did seem to be well on the road to recovery after her battle with addiction and depression.

"Sorry about the mess," Laurel said, clearing away places at the table for her guests. "Things have gotten really busy at the office ever since our new DA started."

"Don't apologize," Oliver told her, as he and his friends took the seats she offered them. "It's great to see you working with a passion again."

Laurel smiled. "Well, you'd better hope I have the same passion for helping ex-billionaires get their companies back as I do for putting other billionaires in jail."

She sat. "Now, the news reports have been delightfully speculative, but if you don't mind, I'd appreciate knowing just what exactly the circumstances were that made you decide this was a good idea."

Oliver nodded. "Fair enough." He took a breath, folding his hands, then began. "Following Isabel's takeover of Queen Consolidated, I was too distracted with Slade's return to muster any kind of response. And while Isabel was eventually unmasked alongside him, during the brief period she had free reign, she was still able to convince the board that I was a completely undesirable candidate. Furthermore, she liquidated all my shares in the company, effectively removing any influence I might have."

He sighed. "By the time I finished with Slade and got back to Starling City, the board had already adopted an interim CEO, and so I was forced to wait for the interviews. When the board picked Latimer, I knew his influence among them was strong enough that I wouldn't be able to make any inroads from the public relations position he offered me."

"So you decided to sue," Laurel finished.

Oliver opened his hands. "It was the only option I had left," he said. "Felicity and I had spent weeks going through the bylaws, looking for a loophole. We didn't find anything."

"And now you need my help."

Oliver bit his lip. "Felicity is a genius, and I tried to help as much as I could, but neither of us are lawyers. Before I can sue, I need to know that I have a case."

Laurel raised an eyebrow. "Maybe that's something you should have thought of before you decided to sue, then."  
Oliver smiled. "I've never been good with details," he said, to which Diggle snorted.

"Don't I know it," Laurel said, rubbing her forehead. "Did you examine the minutes of the meeting where the board appointed Isabel?"

"We did," Felicity said. "I checked them against company policy myself. It was all legitimate."

Laurel folded her hands. "Do you have a copy of them with you?"

"I do," Felicity answered, reaching into her bag and retrieving a folder that she passed across the table. "I assure you, I was very thorough."

Laurel smiled. "I believe it. I hope you don't mind me taking a look, though."

"We don't mind at all," Oliver assured her before Felicity could respond.

Laurel leafed through the papers, her eyes darting back and forth as she skimmed the transcript of the meeting. Loathe to break her concentration, Oliver waited patiently, hoping that a trained legal eye could find something, anything for them to use.

Unfortunately, it was a few minutes later that Laurel sighed and laid the papers down on the table. "I'm sorry," she said, "but everything looks airtight. The board followed the proper procedures down to the letter."

Oliver let out a heavy breath and leaned back. "So we're sunk," he said wearily.

Laurel raised a finger. "Not necessarily. You're suing for wrongful termination, not incorrectly-executed termination. Did you have an existing contract with the board guaranteeing your position for a certain amount of time?"

Oliver frowned. "No."

"Did you at any time receive verbal indication from a board member that you would continue to hold the position?"

"No."  
Laurel sighed. "You're not making this any easier, Oliver." She rubbed her forehead for a moment. "Remind me again: how was it that you lost the position?"

Oliver's eye twitched slightly, the memory of that night still bringing anger to his mind, but he kept his tone neutral. "It was when Thea had been taken hostage by Slade. I couldn't stay at Queen Consolidated to deal with the situation and save my sister at the same time." He swallowed. "So I temporarily designated my CEO powers to Isabel, who then used my absence to call a vote of no confidence from the board, installing herself in my stead."

Laurel frowned. "You designated her as interim CEO, you say?"

"Yes," Oliver confirmed. "Not my brightest moment."

Laurel was onto something else, though. "And how did you do that?"

"I wrote a note," he answered. "Signed it. On a legal pad."

"Do you remember what it said?" Laurel pressed.

Oliver frowned, trying to remember. "Uh…it wasn't much. Just something like, 'I, Oliver Queen, hereby name Isabel Rochev as CEO'."

Laurel leaned back in her chair. "Well," she said, a smile starting to spread across her face. "It looks like you may have a case after all."

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

Laurel explained. "The note you signed could be effectively argued as a contract between you and Ms. Rochev. And any legitimate contract has to have four things to stand up in court."

She took a breath. "First, an offer. In this case, the position of CEO that you gave to her. Second, acceptance, which she obviously did. Third, consideration: you each get something. She gets the company, and you get reprieve from the responsibilities of the office."

Oliver frowned. "This doesn't sound like good news."

Laurel held up a finger. "And finally, competence. Contracts made when one or both parties are physically or mentally incapable of making rational decisions are void. And any lawyer worth their salt should be able to argue that a man whose sister has just been kidnapped is not in the appropriate mental state to be naming replacement CEOs."

Oliver let out an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "That's the first shred of good news I've heard in weeks."

Laurel winced. "Well, you should know that it's my obligation as a lawyer to give you the bad news as well."

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "You mean this entire meeting up until a few seconds ago wasn't the bad news?"

Laurel shook her head. "Unfortunately not. Since you'll be mounting a contractual defense, the court will want physical evidence of the document. In this case, that means the signed note itself. Do you have it?"

Oliver shook his head vociferously. "Isabel would never have given me something like that. Knowing her, she probably had it framed somewhere in her penthouse."

Laurel sighed. "Well, that complicates things. By now all her possessions have likely been distributed according to her will, repossessed, or put into deep storage."

"Can't you, I don't know, subpoena her possessions or something?" Oliver asked.

Laurel shook her head. "I could, but I'm not your lawyer."

Oliver stood up. "Well," he said, buttoning his jacket. "It looks like I'd better find one. And quickly."

He made to go, but Laurel was faster. "Wait," she said, standing up. "I know the practices in this city. Give me a few minutes on the phone, and I'll find you a lawyer."

Oliver blinked. "Of course. Thank you."

The corners or Laurel's mouth twitched as she pulled her phone from her bag. "Thank me when you're sitting in the CEO's chair again."

As Laurel passed into the kitchen, Felicity immediately retrieved her laptop, powering the device up as her features assumed an expression of the utmost concentration.

Knowing that bothering her during at this moment would likely get him a brightly-painted nail through his eye, Oliver turned to Diggle, who had sat through the meeting with his typical stoic silence.

"Well, go on," Oliver said. "I know you're just dying to tell me how crazy I am."

Diggle chuckled. "Oliver, I reconciled you and crazy a long time ago. At this point, I'm just along for the ride."

Oliver smiled in return. "Well, your enthusiasm is heartening." The smile quickly faded, however, as Oliver continued. "In all seriousness, though, I can never thank you enough for all you've done for me, Digg. But this trial could take weeks. Months, even."

Diggle raised an eyebrow. "What are you trying to say, Oliver?"

Oliver let out a breath. "I just want you to know that if you want to spend more time with Lyla over the course of this trial, that I understand completely."

Diggle's face was as expressionless as his voice as he answered. "Oh, so you think that because for the first time you're actually seeking justice through the court system instead of at the point of an arrow that I'm going to get bored and wander home?"

"Not at all," Oliver insisted. "I just want you to know-"

Diggle held up his hand. "Oliver, I have stood by your side through events I never would have even thought possible a few years ago. Now, I'm not going to lie and say that nothing's going to change. With Lyla in the picture, with…" he shook his head, a wistful smile coming over his face, "…with our child in the picture, I will be busy." He put his hand on Oliver's shoulder. "But I will _never_ be too busy for my friends."

Oliver smiled. "Thank you, Digg."

Diggle snorted and let his hand fall. "You're welcome, for the corniest thing I've ever said." He grinned. "Plus, now that I'm going to be a father, I'm really going to need a steady paycheck again. You weren't planning on making Felicity your driver, too, were you?"

Oliver's face flushed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Diggle's eyes suddenly shot over Oliver's shoulder. "Oh, look," he said casually. "Laurel's back."

Before Oliver could respond, Diggle's observation was proved true, the brunette lawyer sweeping back into the room with a smile on her face.

"We're in luck," she declared triumphantly. "I talked to Joanna, my friend from CNRI. She works at Weathersby and Stone now, and she thinks she can convince the senior partners to let her take the case. You should have a lawyer by tomorrow morning."

Oliver let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Laurel," he said. "Once again, I owe you."

"It's my pleasure," Laurel said, eyes sparkling. "Joanna's a great lawyer; she'll hit this one out of the park."

"She'll have to," Felicity said suddenly, and all eyes turned to the blonde IT girl, who shifted uncomfortably at the sudden attention.

"I beg your pardon?" Laurel said quizzically.

Felicity cleared her throat. "When I heard that our suit could be won on grounds of competency, that seemed like a pretty large oversight for Rochev and Latimer to make. So I decided to check to see if they had a backup plan."

Oliver's gut seized. "Did they?"

Felicity nodded. "I did some research, and it turns out that Latimer was the only trustee named in Isabel's will. What's more, he hasn't moved any of her belongings, and he's still paying the rent on her penthouse."

Oliver frowned. "That's strange, but I don't see how it constitutes a backup plan. If anything, it makes our job easier, since her possessions aren't dispersed to the winds."

Felicity held up a finger. "Hold that thought." Her fingers rattled over the keys for a moment, and then she turned the screen around to face them.

"These are the email records of a one LiteSpeed Transport, a moving company owned by Stellmoor International," she explained as Oliver stooped to examine the webpage. "And just about an hour ago, they got a message that had been routed through close to a dozen proxy servers. It-well, you can read for yourself."

Oliver did so, eyes finding the message Felicity had highlighted.

"New job," he read aloud. "Empty contents of 180 Alberta and deliver to the warehouse by midnight." He frowned. "You think this is Latimer?"

"Impossible to tell for sure," Felicity replied, turning her computer around again. "He's smart enough not to use his personal or work computers for something like this, even behind all those proxies. But seeing as apartment 180 of the Alberta Building was home sweet home to none other than Ms. Isabel Rochev, I would bet a significant amount of the money I don't have that Latimer is trying to spirit away the evidence."

Oliver stepped back, trying not to swear. "That's a crime, right?" he asked, looking to Laurel. "Evidence tampering? Couldn't we bring this up at trial?"

Laurel sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Not unless Ms. Smoak had a warrant to go hacking into that company's emails."

"Where's the fun in that?" Felicity muttered to herself.

"But we can still put in a subpoena of our own, right?" Oliver pressed, grasping for any possible solution. "Prevent him from packing up the apartment somehow?"

Laurel ran a hand through her hair. "A temporary restraining order is what you're thinking of, but those have to come from a judge. And there's no way that even if you were able to get in front of a judge before midnight, without a lawyer, that you could convince them to slap a TRO on this company based on hacked email conversation."

A tense silence descended on the table, and Diggle crossed his arms. "So," he said after a long few seconds, "we're out of options."

"It appears that way," Laurel admitted, leaning back against the counter.

Again, the room quieted, but this time it was Oliver who broke the calm.

"The law has always had limitations," he said, stepping forward. "That's why I took up the hood in the first place."

"Oliver, you can't be considering-" Felicity began, standing up.

"I am," Oliver interrupted, "because it's the only option we have left." Seeing the concerns rising in Felicity's eyes, Oliver raised a hand to forestall them. "I won't harm the crew," he promised. "It'll be a simple snatch and grab. I find the note—assuming it's even there—and bring it back. Quick and clean."

Felicity looked to Laurel. "Well, if my hacking skills aren't a legitimate source of evidence, then how would a hand-delivered note from the vigilante hold up in court?"

Laurel blew out a breath. "It's doubtful that the note would be officially listed in Isabel's will, which means that unless Latimer can somehow prove that she kept the note, you should be able to introduce it as valid evidence by saying that you kept it after the takeover occurred." She turned to look Oliver in the eye. "Provided, that is, that you're willing to commit perjury."

Oliver chuckled. "At this point, Laurel, if the Arrow was unmasked, perjury would be the least of Oliver Queen's concerns."

Laurel opened her mouth to interject something, but Oliver shook his head. "I appreciate the sentiment, Laurel, but this is the only way. We need that note, and there's only one way we can get it."

Laurel looked for a moment as if she was about to say something, but instead she swallowed the words, smoothing her features over into a pleasant smile. "Well, I'd best not keep you, then," she said.

Picking up on the cue, Felicity and Diggle gathered their belongings, heading for the door. As they passed out of the room, Oliver lingered, turning back to face Laurel.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "We couldn't have done this without you."

Laurel nodded politely. "You're welcome."

The silence stretched between them as Oliver debated whether he should say more. After a few seconds, the tension grew too much to bear, and Oliver simply returned the nod, dipping his head sharply down before retreating out of the room.

His steps seemed unnaturally loud on the wooden floors as he exited her apartment, closing the door behind him. He had been there so many times in the past he could likely navigate Laurel's apartment blind, but now, something just seemed off. He couldn't name it, couldn't put a finger on it, but he couldn't deny that he now felt like a stranger in Laurel's life.

Oliver shook his head, trying to put that thought out of his mind as he continued down the hall to where Felicity and Diggle were waiting at the staircase. He couldn't afford to be caught up in the ceaseless soap opera that was his and Laurel's relationship, not when there was urgent business at hand.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Oliver?" Felicity asked as he joined them at the stairs.

"Get my company back? Yeah, I'm pretty sure," he answered dryly, even as he offered her his arm after glancing down at her decidedly not staircase-friendly heels.

"You know that's not what I meant," Felicity scowled, but she threaded her arm through his anyways. "I mean lying to do it."

Oliver gave a bewildered smile as they descended the first flight. "Felicity, I've been lying to people for years now. I'm not proud of it, and I don't enjoy it, but the life I live—the life you are a part of—demands it."

"This is different," Felicity insisted. "You'll be under oath, Oliver."

Oliver sighed, and glanced back over his shoulder. Diggle was hanging back a diplomatic few yards, pretending to be thoroughly interested in the wallpaper.

Resigning himself to the conversation, he let Felicity lean on him a little more heavily as they came to a landing and turned the corner to proceed down the next flight.

"I appreciate the concern for my honor, Felicity," he said, keeping his voice low in case they encountered someone else on the stairs, "but like I said, if I was to be brought to account, perjury would be the least of my charges."

"As the Arrow, yes," Felicity said doggedly. "The Arrow is outside the law. But what about Oliver Queen?"

Oliver snorted. "They wouldn't make a distinction between the two, Felicity."

"Do you?"

Oliver blinked. "What?"

Felicity exhaled, then looked at him, eyes flitting apprehensively up to peek over her glasses. "I'm just worried," she said quietly.

"About what?" Oliver asked, guiding her gently around the next corner.

"About you," Felicity said tiredly. "What else?" Before Oliver could interrupt, she continued. "I guess I always have been, but even more so now that…" she swallowed. "…now that your family is gone, I'm worried that you might go with them. That you'll become absorbed in this persona, that you'll devote yourself to his crusades until they're all that matters in your life, and Oliver Queen is simply the Arrow in a nice suit."

Oliver was dumbfounded by the sudden outpouring, and as she stopped and turned, he abruptly realized they were at the bottom of the stairs.

"I don't want that for you," Felicity murmured. She paused, and as she looked up at him again, Oliver was shocked by the emotion in her eyes.

"I don't want you to lose yourself," she finished simply.

She had a point, Oliver knew, as always. Even if he hadn't donned the hood in the past few weeks, he had been focused so intensely upon regaining control of Queen Consolidated that in his mind, Latimer was for all intents and purposes another name on the List. And in retrospect, the casualness with which he had accepted perjuring himself was rather frightening; in the midst of his counsel with Laurel and with Latimer's plan arrayed before him, it had seemed like the only logical option, but now, in the light of day and Felicity's words, he realized that this lawsuit could be more taxing on his principles than he realized.

It was unnerving to see how easily he might lose his conscience if it weren't for her.

But it was heartening indeed to see how deeply she understood him.

Not caring that Diggle stood only a few steps above, apparently fascinated by his phone, Oliver laid his hand on her shoulder.

"As long as you're here, Felicity, I will always find my way home," he promised.

Their eyes locked, and as a long moment passed, Oliver realized not for the first time how natural, how simple, it felt.

Finally, Felicity gave a shy smile and dropped her gaze. "Let's go," she said, nudging him with her elbow.

As they headed towards the door, Oliver could have sworn he heard Diggle sigh and mutter something that sounded vaguely like "so close."

000

With a swift pull of a lever, the clay disc was sent arcing rapidly across the empty room, a parabolic trajectory straight out of a physics textbook.

Arrow shaft nestled against his cheek, Malcolm Merlyn tracked the target with single-minded intensity, calculating its speed and arc and plotting an intersect point in his mind. At the precise moment anticipated, he released the arrow, sending it speeding towards its target…

…only to miss by scarcely more than a finger's breadth, impacting harmlessly against the far wall, even as the disc shattered mockingly against the floor.

Malcolm swore and reached out, pulling the lever again, but the machine gave only a click. That had been the last disc.

Growling in frustration, Malcolm lowered his bow, setting it down on the table in front of him as he shrugged off his quiver of target arrows and did the same. He had gone through four crates of clay targets in the past few days, with only a few misses.

But to Malcolm Merlyn, a few misses might as well be a thousand misses. In the past year, his skills had atrophied somewhat, an unavoidable result of his travels and return to Nanda Parbat under the guise of repentance. While he was still an archer to be feared, he found himself forced to admit that his skills were no longer up to his own exacting standards.

And there was only one way to fix that.

Reaching behind the throwing machine, Malcolm grabbed another crate from a stack of its fellows, lifting it up and over to set it on the table.

As he did so, a familiar pain wrenched in his chest, and he bit his lip to forestall a curse.

It had been over a year since the fateful night of the Undertaking, when Oliver Queen had left him for dead on the roof of his corporate headquarters even as the city crumbled around them, over a year since that emerald arrow had pierced his flesh, yet the wound had never fully healed.

On impulse, Malcolm stepped back from the crate and pulled back his shirt, turning to face the mirror that was set into the wall, his fingers tracing the gnarled white scar that now marked his chiseled torso.

The wound should have been fatal, the arrowhead missing his heart by scarcely an inch. He was barely clinging to life when his distress call was finally answered, Isabel arriving just in time to spirit him away via helicopter.

He should be thankful that he survived; the doctors had given him a one in a thousand chance.

But Malcolm was not a grateful man. Memories of that night flashed in front of his eyes as he observed the wound; the shock of feeling the cold steel slip between his ribs, followed by the excruciating pain and the raw terror of feeling his life essence pour out into the gravel around him.

And the anger, the pure, undiluted rage that filled his mind, even as his body grew weaker and weaker. His plan had succeeded, yes, but only in part. Even as it came to fruition, what was supposed to be his moment of crowning triumph had been marred by the most bitter of defeats. He had _beaten _Oliver, he knew, fingers clenching involuntarily at the memory. For all the younger man's passion, Malcolm was yet his elder, and just as in their previous two meetings, he had wrestled the Queen son into submission.

Until Oliver found the arrow on the ground, and drove it through his own chest in a suicidal bid to kill Malcolm.

That wound was made even more painful when Malcolm realized that it had been him who gave Oliver the motivation to do so. The words he had said earlier that night, when Oliver was chained in front of him, now seemed to mock him.

_"In your heart, you don't know what you're fighting for."_

Evidently, Oliver had found that knowledge. And Malcolm had paid the price. It was his arrogance that had been his undoing.

Malcolm would not make that mistake again.

Shrugging his shirt back on, he stepped back to the table, cutting open the crate with his knife and loading the first set of a dozen discs into the launching machine.

Oliver Queen would pay for his meddling, Malcolm had sworn. But before that, he would be made to suffer. His company stripped away, his own sister turned against him, and his city razed, Oliver would know in the last fleeting moments before he died that Malcolm Merlyn was his better.

Malcolm picked up his bow, nocking an arrow, and then pulled the lever.

The disc went sailing across the room, and instead of trying to plot its motion in his mind, Malcolm gave in to his intuition, not simply knowing where the disc would be in space but truly _seeing _it.

_Oliver may have beaten me, but he couldn't kill me._

Malcolm's fingers opened. The arrow shot forth.

And halfway through its journey, the clay disc shattered into a dozen fragments as it was pierced clean through the middle.

Malcolm lowered the bow. _He will regret that mistake._

He reached to pull the lever again, but was interrupted by a knock.

Suppressing his irritation, Malcolm set down the bow and opened the door.

"Malcolm." The voice was distinctly accented, clipped, almost surgical, and Malcolm recognized it immediately as that of Amir al-Khalid, the wiry Saudi who was his lieutenant among the small circle of followers that Malcolm had cultivated in the League. "There's been a development with the prisoners."

Amir al-Khalid was unquestionably one of the League's most dangerous members, an artist with the two short blades he favored and, even more importantly to Malcolm, known to have the ear of Ra's al Ghul himself. He hid his inner zealotry under an emotionless façade that never cracked.

And so Malcolm knew from the sudden urgency in his voice that something serious had happened.

"What, my friend?" he asked. "Tell me."

Amir inclined his head. "They're gone."

Malcolm's cheek twitched. "What."

"The prisoners are gone," Amir repeated. "Escaped."

Malcolm drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. "Show me."

Amir nodded. "Right this way," he said, and stepped back out into the hallway.

Malcolm followed, footsteps echoing through the stone halls as he followed the Saudi down into the dungeons of the crumbling British colonial-era fort that Malcolm and his band of followers had occupied. Constructed high in the mountain jungles of India, it had been abandoned for centuries until Malcolm found it during his travels, and he had slowly been turning it into a fortress for his own devices.

Evidently, however, his fortress was not as secure as he imagined. Sara and Nyssa were formidable adversaries, but the fact that they had escaped rankled Malcolm's pride as much as it angered him.

But without doubt, he was angry. His time had already been running out when news came that Ra's was getting nervous about the whereabouts of Nyssa; this escape would only jeopardize his plans further.

"We believe they escaped sometime in the past two hours," Amir said as they came to the bottom of a cramped stairwell and stepped into the dungeon row. "Viktor went to deliver their meal and didn't return. Bassam and Zhao went to check on him, and found him unconscious." He stopped at the cell door that was now swinging open. "And this."

Ducking his head under the frame, Malcolm stepped into the cell.

The ropes that had once held his captives suspended from the ceiling were cut, lying in frayed piles on the floor. Large splotches of drying blood decorated the stones, and Malcolm spotted a thin black object lying discarded in the middle of the scene.

Frowning, he crouched, and delicately retrieved the object from the pool of blood around it.

His arrow.

"What would you have us do?" Amir asked.

Malcolm held the arrow up before his eyes, examining it as a jeweler would a particularly valuable diamond. Thin strands of the rope were still wrapped around the head, making it more than clear for what purpose it had been used.

His momentary loss of control with Sara had provided them with the means of their escape. His own arrow, turned against him; his prisoners' escape, his own making.

It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling.

"Malcolm." Amir was no longer asking. He was expectant.

Malcolm gave the arrow one last look. "One of them is injured," he said at long length. "They are both exhausted." He tossed the arrow aside, and the head clinked ominously across the stone floor.

"They cannot have gotten far."

**A/N: Right, just a few more things. Thanks to all who opined on the issue of chapter size; it was a resounding 'yes' to long chapters, so I'll keep up the mini-Illiads as best as I can. **

**Also, I know this chapter took longer to update than in the past, and I do apologize. I'm trying my level best to pump out one per week, but it's quite tricky now that I've actually gotten a job. Well, really, an internship, but it's really the same thing as far as the hours it sucks out of my life. And since I'm not getting paid, I am now shamelessly coming to you guys for my sense of gratification and purpose in life. **

**Review please?**


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